Oyster Girl

We met over oysters and scallops in the French Quarter of a mismatched ether. She sent pictures - her in a mirror, beside a mirror, partly hidden by a mirror, naked under glass (I still have that one). She liked to reflect and be reflected. I admired her self-regard, her low-minded succulence, Her high-handed high-heeled slipperiness. Raw fresh oysters and Dom Perignon for breakfast and lunch. Scallops seared in butter on a crostini and a Sauvignon Blanc for supper. This minimalist diet kept her svelte, prim, and of course most improper. I thought of her as a swim without a swimmer, splashes of her revealing her lovely lips, and they were indeed lovely, red but not scarlet more a sea anemone rouge as it fades to a pink laced coral. The camera may garnish but it cannot hide that kind of salty lusciousness caught fresh every morning. I likened her to a glistening slickness to be sipped or guzzled Her words slipped through you like Gaelic eels. Her neck undulated as a dolphins caress as she swallowed her catch and zoomed. I confess to an occasional shame-faced queasiness; and then oyster and scallops are best consumed over the internet where too much of them cannot sour the stomach or tease you softly with a squirmy aftertaste. Yet I still imagine her in a mirror again her teeth as pearly as pearls, yet snip-snip sharp and as pointy as stiletto’s rent through a fished-up filet of heart.