ROSS AND THE CROWS
© Lovespoon, Thursday, January 15, 2009
(605 words)



Frustrating long five-minute stretches always interrupted their conversation, when they went camping or to parks.  Ross stood on the park bench.  His soap box. Ross wore jeans, white shirt unbuttoned to the second button and black dress jacket, white gym shoes.  He belonged in a poet reading.  His short-black hair in a mass of jerks and exclamation marks.  “Can’t you hear them, Ani?  Their uttering, cawing.  Their hooting and howling and blabbering.”  His caring face tried to masks a scowl but failed. He pointed and accused five rows of crows on telephone cords strung across bleak gray skies. “Look.  All waiting like we’re live road kill carcasses.”
Ani ignored him.  Finishing her crossword puzzle always brightened her day.  She’d already memories his baby-boy face, his dark wannabe-brooding looks.  His oval face flanked by dark hair narrow along the sides and two inches high on the top.  He hated words.  He was an engineer or would be.  She liked his career.  “What’s a five letter word for people?”
“Crows.”
“For people,” Ani said annoyed, without looking up.
Silence did not fill the space but the crows blubbering did.
“People can be crows.”  Ross continued, “Masses going about following on the wings of yesteryear, yesterday and yesterthink. Mindless crowds.”
“Thank you.  Crowds.”
“Why do we visit Autas Park?”  Ross started again.  “I’ve developed an admiration for crow dross disappearance.  Where does it all go?  You . . .”
“Finished my puzzle.” Ani twisted the paper like a cloth dishrag.  She stuff it in her canvas purple purse beside her university books.  She wore tight T-shirt over her ratty jeans with kneeholes, white cotton socks and buck brown canvas shoes.  She loved camping and outdoors.  She loved the silence.  It brought her closer to Ross.  Ani leaned back on the table, threw her arms wide apart, taking in the balmy 75 degree breeze.  Taking in the silence.  “Sun O Sun where can you be . . .”
Ross joined in.  “O Where O where can you be?”  He turned his back on the crows. Ani’s bra framed under the tight top distracted him from the animal noises.  “You are a work of art.  This black hair swept into swirls and covering our pillows at home drives me crazy.  Your Goya dark eyes and powerful eyebrows.”
“My milky satin skin and gossamer gowns.”  Ani smiled and her smokey-eye shadow and long-black lashes, narrowed sensuously and bore into Ross’ baby blues.  
“Stop it.”
Ani giggled.  “You wanted a bitch.”
“I said, ‘A woman with balls.’”
“A bitch.  Equivalent of female cockiness.”
“That doesn’t mean practice on me.”
Ani bit her forefinger’s wrinkled skin. “You see me laying in our bed, on white sheets, my maiden-pink gown hanging off my naked shoulder, down to my dainty wrist.  My curved hip taut under the garment, both knees together proper like you desire.”
“Damn.  You’re good.”
“I’m a poet.” Ani sat up and held out her hand.  “Lets go, Ross.”
“Where?”
“Anywhere no one’s watching.”  Her head motioned upward to the crows--earnestly making an awful racket, cawing, and uttering and flapping. She lowered her long dark lashes, again.  Her natural blushing lips parted.
The cacophony of crows lifted off and made a slow languid turn, before they headed off into the distance gray skies.
Ross’ baby face stared at Ani like an innocent child. “How’d you do . . .”
“You want to stay now?”
“No way!”
“Some puzzles should remain mysteries.”
Ross offered. “Like the mystery of woman.”
“Like the mystery of man with woman,” Ani said.

                                         —THE END—