Red Dress

She walked into the room like a sea battle. It was unsteady rhythm. Rocking to and fro in uncertain violent charm. I felt the desire to stay afloat in dark and murky waters, with temptation and shattered, splintered integrity threatening to bring me down. The hem of her red dress, brushing the back of her knee, waving like a flag in the wind. An invitation to the depths.

It was that red dress that I noticed first. It was like a beacon. Unpredictable soul I am not: it’s all written in the stars. Every sailor knows the call of port, and the joyful swooping flight of the welcome swallows. Every man knows the draw of a red dress. Or something like it. Worms on a hook. Burley in the water. A red dress over hips, held taut like sails. And hips like a gentle, salacious breath of wind.

But I have an advantage. I have no crew to loose, and no obligation to land anyone on the sand. If I chose I can follow storms, and court the 200 foot breakers. If I dare.

It’s a matter of courage. Sometimes I’m full of it. Sometimes, not so. Sometimes the glass is half full. Sometimes it’s half empty, and the full half is full of rancid piss. But the though of the red dress is Dutch courage in of itself. Rum before battle. The taste of hate on the end of a bayonet. Conviction and sin.

Destiny entwined but never joined. Ships passing. Cannons out, or is will it be signal flags again? Each pass is different. Red. Dress.

Deep brown eyes and smiles. The perfect storm.

A ship-wreck? A mermaid. Both.