Mild Obsurity

Mild obscurity At the local supermarket, a woman not a day over seventy-five asked me where she could find unsalted butter spoke with an American accent. What do I know, perhaps, she was related to the Kennedys? By the butter- shelf we stood, there was a spark between us like the Ronson-lighter I once bought in Liverpool, a heavy lighter, I always knew in which pocket it was; now that smoking is a sin the lighter ended up in the garage, only to be used in extreme perseverance, I had seen her before, in Trieste in 1962 she was a spy for the CIA Smoked posh Monte Carlo cigarettes through a long holder while drinking creme de menthe. My wife stirred; leg cramps switched on the bedside lamp and I was brought back to reality.