I Wonder Why

Tall; five-eleven. Long smooth muscled legs and firm buttocks of a swimmer. Snug faded jeans. Rubber boots trimmed in wool at the ankle. A brown leather jacket zipped to the center of her just slightly rounded belly. A burgundy sweater accented breasts that ride high and proud. A black cap---the logo said Smith & Wesson. A manner of confidence, of education. A model she might have been in her day…had she wanted to be. But the long dark-blonde hair, tinted silver now by time and the sun, says those days have come and gone.

She browsed shades of lip-gloss, eye shadow and blush in the ladies beauty aisle. Men walked near; most paused to take a second look. Some stopped to admire. Women came to her, to ask her opinion of colors for them. I didn’t wonder why.

She pointed at me with a tube of lipstick and motioned for me to come there. I smiled and honored her request. She smiled too, when I rubbed my hand across the back of her jeans and gave the cheeks of her butt a pat. A man behind me sighed with a groan. I didn’t wonder why.

In the small morning hours of the next day, she rolled over on her side to face me. She gently placed her hand on my chest; her long fingers combed through the hair. With sleep still fresh in her voice she said to me, “You thrash and you turn night after night. You wonder if you are ready to finish writing your book. I don’t wonder if you are. I know you are. Listen to me for a change…go and finish your book.”

Kenny Rogers said it for eternity in a song. He said, “She believes in me.”

I wonder why.