The Strand of Something Else

 

Been working late lately, surrounded by four or five women.
This group of eight or ten women alternates each week,
a few of them are young and easy to look at,
                                                                  but I don't;
too difficult to differentiate friendliness from flirting,
though one has a nice smile, so I avoid that.

I work close to a Russian. A little shorter than me,
lean with hips, short blond hair, clean, good nails. Seems timid.
We both communicate through an alien language, gently
toppling words for awkward ears to try and catch.
She stares while we talk
and I look away. Cowardly.

When I do risk the look,
her eyes are smeared wide and surging
like a nocturnal mammal; she's taking me in -
watching.
One look
at this feral face
and I'm stupid: miscalculating risks.

Before I leave, I put my hand out to her,

"I'm Daniel."