Caress/Evade

I'll push you away,
yet you wander closer
to my inner core.
You creep up back behind me.

Clasping my shoulders,
mumblings flirting with my ears,
you invade my space,
not intending to let go.

I smell your shampoo,
a whiff of cloves and walnut.
Fingertips dig in
and stroke my woolen sweater.

You just say hello.
Two ear-tickling syllables,
licking at my lobes
distract me from my folding.

All around us are
hoodies splashed in bold colors:
blue fleece and red wool.
We could squeeze into those wares.

No footsteps tread on
the wooden shop floors, so you
let your hands linger,
dig deeper into the wool.

I can feel the heat
float off your whispers. Your hands,
your voice pin me where
I stand in front of glass walls.

Hello-what a word!
Why not say it to my face?
Must you make a scene
for the shopping passers-by?

Your grip loosens, but
you hold me, not letting go.
Now what did you say?
Doesn't matter; let me go.

I hear your chatter-
some rambling about the store,
praises for something.
But I can't listen to you.

Shifting my shoulders,
I wiggle away from you,
escaping your hands.
I turn, facing you, afraid.

I look out the walls,
hoping someone will stop in
to distract you from
me, but everyone walks by.

I look toward the back.
The cashier helps customers
unload their wallets
on threads for the holidays.

'Midst the cotton and
flannel, money changes hands.
A lady strides by,
not seeing you stand by me.

Still too goddamn close-
I can trace the weaving of
your shrunken sweater.
Dare I ask what's caught your eye?

It's not the child
rollerskating out the door
or the kid's clueless
mother who seeks me out.

It's not the sweater-
kelly green with puffs on string-
dangling from my hand.
I search your face for answers.

Eyes not on my face-
they drift about my body.
Your head is bowed, and
I gaze upon onyx spikes.

Look up, you bastard!
I'm more than a pretty rack.
They're not for you to
fuss over while on the clock!

Don't you understand?
My breasts are for someone else.
Won't he be unnerved
to learn of your crude actions?

With sweater in hand,
I move a little further
away so I can
get some work done around here.

You're still standing there,
and I still can't see your eyes.
They're fixed on the floor,
avoiding contact with me.

I set the sweater
on the table beside me,
lay it flat on shirts
piled up to my stomach.

As I fold the sleeves,
I see your head snap back up,
those matte orbs
muddling your intentions.

"No," I whisper, and
I move the sweater away.
I'll push you away
with one word: a rejection.

Those tears on your orbs
haunt me as you walk away
when I see I've made you run.