Kilovela Beach

"i know you're intelligent"
said the black man,
"i can see it in your eyes"
he stopped me on the street corner
and said "what's your favourite colour?
if you were water, what would you be?
do you want to come for coffee?"
i don't have a favourite colour,
i didn't know how to answer,
except i don't like yellow.
"i want to be your friend"
said the man, ashing his cigarette
in my empty soft-drink can.
"it's all about trust—"
and the muscles in my back
stayed rigid as my chair,
and my self-doubt left me crippled.
"you don't trust easily"
he said, as though his secret handshake -
like this, like so, like that -
would unlock me.

no, i just don't trust you.

"come down to kilovela beach"
he said,
and his accent curled the words
beyond meaningless,
to nothing. my dinner stayed uneaten,
the knot in my stomach.
"you can stand and scream 'i'm stressed'"
said his woman friend,
appearing out of nowhere,
supporting character in this play.
they drank tea, he grinned,
mocked my fists knotted at my chin.
"come on" they said,
and he had a car; ties on the back seat,
beer underfoot,
i couldn't cinch the seatbelt tight.
ten minutes drive,
rocky beach, swimming pool.
the moonlight painted a circle on the water,
lace white.
i didn't want a beer.
i didn't want a hug.
i didn't want a kiss.
i didn't want his hands
	on my stomach
	under my shirt.
i didn't want to be there.
i didn't want to be so stupid.


17 April, 1998
© Lela Kaunitz