If you weren't under-age
I would have taken you to bed and...
now I cannot even talk to you about it,
imagine someone overhears.
She was used to my being crazy,
differently crazy every time, still - crazy.
But not dangerously so, I think.
This is what crazy people think always, anyway.
Under which age, exactly? she asked,
filling-in the wrinkles with whatever extracts
from whatever flowers
from whatever jungles
the big companies were promoting at the time of my declaration.
It wasn't Borneo anymore, seemed they had found something better,
more expensive, of course.
At least she didn't force me to go through the degrading act
of checking my temperature
(you know how it can be done, well, she did it that way).
Under the age of consent, of course, I answered. I was logical.
I was a sentient human, trying to keep his ass out of trouble
and, except for the temperature thing, I mostly succeeded.
She finished with the creaming, lipsticking, shaving... all those things
sensible sensitive sentients of the female gender usually do.
She knew I wasn't joking, I never joked about serious matters.
Death excluded. I considered death a cosmic joke.
Consent to what?
It was time I checked her temperature, but I didn't dare,
even the thought of it was embarrassing.
Sex, what else?
I tiptoed to the door,
tore it open to uncover whatever secret elements were spying on us,
found no one, so I returned to the couch.
And if there was someone there, what would you have done? Shot him? Or her?
She wasn't logical. Of course. Who was crazy here? I snickered to myself.
And if I told you my age is three times that, would it be ok?
Who was she joking? Who are you joking? I asked, boldly.
I watched her, her firm flesh appetizingly al dente
her sublime loins making any al forno concept obsolete
those hard mele with their harder fragole...
What are you licking your lips for? she asked,
do you think Mediterranean again?
Ma perche?... oops... I was about to hang,
for no offense committed. Yet.
She seemed to have other ideas, hanging high low on her priorities list
that conceited depraved young under-age chick
with her snow-white skin and china-blue eyes and poppy-red lips,
all her creaming, lipsticking, shaving done by now.
She went to the door and pulled it wide open... Nooo... I screamed
covering my eyes and ears and nose (though I had a problem,
missing a few much needed additional limbs),
I didn't want to see/hear/smell the twenty or more bodies
spying on us through the one keyhole
now to be ripped/shredded/quashed by the blast of her naked looks...
I felt fingers, not too gentle, pulling away all limbs I tried to use
from eyes and ears and nose... I peeked, ready for insanity,
seeing just the rear end of a grey cat walking lazily down the corridor,
Where are they, I asked, shivering like pudding in a 6.3 Richter.
Here, pazzo, she knocked her knuckle on my forehead,
kicking the door shut, the cat out of sight,
and surprising me with her deep understanding of Albanian.
Relax, I am at least three years over under, she added enigmatically,
sprawling me over the bed as enigmatically.
I didn't really believe her, with that al dente, etc,
but sometimes, there are things in life worth dying for. Even jailing for.
Even having the temperature taken for.
Are you sure you want?... I asked, thinking He-Little Red Hood.
Like yesterday, answered She-Wolf.
Why was yesterday sure I didn't know, I didn't care either,
going cucina all the way.
Her babbà was delicious.