John Yohe

hand on thigh

a group of fiction writers
invited me the poet
out to drinks
I didnt know them but accepted
my eye on the woman
who/d actually asked—
tall
short brown hair
dressed like me
black jeans black t-shirt
she ended up next to me
in one of the booths
at the White Horse Tavern
big enough for all six of us

I dont normally ever know
if a woman is interested
but her hand on my thigh
the whole time
gave me the courage
at the end of the night
to ask for her number
which she gave

that was tuesday
I called the next night
asked her out on friday
which she accepted
we talked a bit
about Michigan and Minnesota

friday I went to her place
lower east side
she looked good
I told her so—
red silk blouse
tight black miniskirt
high heel leather boots
and
my weakness
dark shiny hosiery

I kissed her right there
or
we kissed
or
she kissed back
before saying we should go
to a quiet place she knew
where we sat at the bar
talked for an hour + a half
my hand resting on her thigh this time
sometimes running from her knee
up to her skirt hem
maybe a little furthur
talking about writers + writing
New York
music
I was enchanted—
finally the literary Manhattan romance
I/d always imagined

walked her home
kissed her once out on the street
watched her walk up the stairs
to the building door

she called the next day
angry
at how I/d kissed her
at the start of the night
how I/d been touching her legs
how that was inappropriate

I apologized
said I thought she liked it
she said she didnt
hung up
+ my life went
back to 
normal