Lisa Maher (Platypus Enthusiast and Fine Cheese Connoisseur) is a person of arguable distinction. She is currently pursuing degrees in English Education and Theatre at the Macaulay Honors College, Queens Campus. In her spare time, she is a freelance stage manager, epee fencer, lover, fighter, ballad writer, teacher, creature, and amateur contortionist. She is also a proud member of Freudian Slip Films. She occasionally lives in Flushing.
The man-boy with blue eyes and good
intentions sat on my couch on a Saturday,
arm deliberately lax, draped over my shoulder.
“I know what we’re supposed to do now,” he explained.
“I promise I know this is what today is about, I just…
I don’t know how to begin.”
“I want to do this right,” he continued,
“I want this to be done right. I want to
follow the proper rules and regulations
and do this in a romantic, suave way.
I want to say something beautiful and
poetic and then we will be beautiful
and poetic and then nothing will ever
“I want to say something breathtaking for
posterity’s sake and then you and I can share
a perfect kiss, because I haven’t done this in a
while and I can’t kiss you just now, after telling you
I haven’t done this in a while.”
“It was a lovely day, today, really it was.”
(“I can’t kiss you after talking about the weather”)
“That was really good, um, primavera.”
(“That can’t be the lead-in to anything good.”)
“What did you think of the movie?”
(“That was an open-ended question, if I kissed you I’d be shutting you up”)
“Do you remember that part in Inglourious Basterds?”
(“What the hell is wrong with me?”)
So we talked, myself and timid Adonis.
We kept bringing up topics of conversation,
soothing and kind, waiting for that perfect
microcosmic phrase that demanded
words be ceased for the time, that lips had
more nobler deeds to pursue. We talked about
Buddhism and soccer and the day and literature
and music, and we talked about talking and we
addressed the gorilla sitting in the middle of
the dormitory floor and finally he said,
“and she says ‘3 gins’”
Our eyes met and he said, in the most tragic
tone a man could make,
“That was it. I should have kissed you then. I
missed it. I…”
His eyes shifted for a second, a moment
long enough for me to grab him by the
shirt, straddle his lap and seal his
You silly, beautiful boy. Don’t you know
that posterity means nothing to a woman
who lives in words?