The small window to the garden
was obscure glass -
creating distorted images of your
movements
as you stooped to work the earth.
I rapped lightly with my knuckles
and you popped up,
opened the back door to meet me
in the kitchen.
I reached to hug your dirt-covered self,
drops of perspiration on your brow.
You extended your hands like a traffic cop.
“You’ll get mud on you!”
Said I didn’t care,
wiping your smudged cheek.
“I’m going to shower,” and, with that,
you slipped away.

Alone in the kitchen, I sipped a beer
wondering what kind of evening might
unfold.
Friends, casual date, partners?
You never fully committed.
It was like watching a spinning roulette wheel -
dizzying, unpredictable,
the white ball circling and dropping
on random numbers - even, odd,
red, black.
Win or lose, I never seemed to get it right.
Trying to decipher your moods was like
betting a hand without cards.
And still, I played the odds,
completely swept up in you.

Halfway through my beer
you descended the steps in a silk
robe, the color of opal,
your hair in a bun.
Taking the beer from my hand,
you straddled my lap,
wrapping your arms around my waist.
“I never know what you want, my love,”
I whispered.
I unclipped your hair, catching it as it fell
over your shoulders.

My hands explored the curves of you
as you kissed me.
In my head I heard the roulette croupier say,
“Les jeux sont faits.”
And so we proceeded, irreversibly,
all bets placed to fate.

© Laura DeHart Young