Dolly Madison kisses me back sweet-like outside of Ruby’s where we sip elixirs and giggle at the sidewalk staggers of late night downtown.
“I don’t want someone directing me,” She says, unexpectedly (and it comes out like a question), “but I don’t want to tell someone else what to do, either.”
“Oh oh,” I say “Like two mustangs.”
And she says, “what?”
“Two mustangs,” I reiterate. Not a rider and a horse or a horse and a rider, with the digging of spurs and the crack of crops, but two steeds, side by side, running for all they’re worth.
Dolly’s eyes stare before they roll up and to her left. I make my hands move forward up and down and side to side, together.
She lights with a slow smile and says, “yeah” and kisses me harder.