Grammar Shy

They were in the produce section, picking mushrooms.
She was younger than him--maybe by twenty years--
     and I thought of them as father and daughter
     until I followed them to the aisle with red wine.
The way she stood close behind him, offset, staring at labels
gave her solemn dedication to his largess away
and I was certain he had cracked open a clam over in seafood,
then she emerged fully clothed with eyes so sparkled and empty
they closed the symbolic circle of nakedness.

She didn't seem to mind the cocktail sauce, to know what it was for
but even the second-rate night-clerk who hardly speaks English
     could call the bluff.
He asked her ID for the wine and was surprised that her driver's license
     didn't smell like the sea; still--
     there was something off about how she asked for paper bags
     while the man trailed away.
He was going to devour her. She paid for the butter, sauces, lemons,
     and complimentary wine without flinching.
I almost thought she was accustomed, new shells blooming her all the time.

I followed them to their car,
an opulent black affair that he pressed her gentle bones against to kiss her.
She stood with one hand on the cart, her head tilted like she was listening
to something underground while he loaded the groceries into the trunk.
When he finished she pushed the cart to the corral, soft-stepping
     and she caught me staring, defenseless, fascinated by her vacancy
     until I watched something stir deep in the tidepool that said "leave us alone."
I retreated hastily, embarrassed, knowing that the next time I bought a clam...

(c) Dorothy J Burk 2008