Catnip and Mistletoe

Catnip and Mistletoe    
                   
      I meet Shari in a bar in the warehouse district of New Orleans. Her bare midriff is illustrated with henna and her black lipstick completes her Goth look. The Stygian hue of her lips entices me to follow her even into Hades. She says, “Are you looking for a companion at the raves or a feathery woman to tickle you at night. I can do rough or soft, you pick.”  
     I reply, “There is a zip to those nose rings which is undeniable. Given half a chance you could have my hair dyed purple and a ring to rub my zipper from behind.”  
     She says, “So you like your women decked in leather and buzzing to the beat of techno. But would such a female make a good mother for your children?”  
     I reply, “That consideration hasn’t even entered my mind. You don’t suppose you could swing it both ways?”  
      She says, “I’ll never be June Cleaver. But as a woman with maternal instincts, there is a cradle to be rocked. My henna can be washed off with olive oil.”  
     She rollerblades down the sidewalk and out of sight. But I gave her a key to my place and my address. Her plan to surprise me works wonders for my retro grunge heart. I stop at a coffee shop but can hardly focus on my bagel and espresso much less the newspaper whose print is illegible from my watery eyes.  
      Finally, I take the long walk home with slow and measured footsteps. Though this is my very own home I ring the doorbell in a surreal moment. Shari unlocks the door and greets me with her astonishing makeover. Her tattoos have vanished along with her black lipstick and nose rings. And she is modestly dressed in a gown befitting a housewife. She tells me, “I will assume this décor only in the confines of your apartment. Elsewhere I will be the darkling you met at the club tonight.”  
     I reply, “Well let’s spend some time getting to know this alter ego of yours. Your soft side is an appealing contrast to your leather chick side.”  
      Shari says, “Well then my morph will stay until the witching hour on Sunday. Then I’ll return to being the Vampiress of your darker dreams.”  
     I reply, “If you become a mother with me will your ink still flow down below or will your foreswear your fishnet stockings forevermore?”  
     “That is a question for mortals. We vampyresses aren’t constrained by convention.”  
     That night her wifely attire cannot hide her beastly nature. And so carnality defines the hours that pass. Monday morning comes like a sleeping tiger. When I awaken she is gone.  
     The months ease along with a steady gait until the momentous Friday when a baby in his crib mewls in the bedroom. But where is the mother of this beautiful boy? There is baby food in the cabinet from who knows where. And I realize that I never had Shari return her key to my place. The day goes by with the boy shaking his rattle. My heart beats with wonderment.  
     Finally, I hear the deadbolt unlocked and Shari enters dressed in her Sunday best. She opens the conversation. “I wanted to test you, to see if you were comfortable with our child. After all, we don’t  
want a skittish man as a father.”  
     “Did I pass muster?”  
     “That has yet to be seen. But I’m not on the hunt for a stepfather just yet. You two look comfortable.”  
     “What about the Grunge girl Shari? Is she gone for good?”  
     She replies, “My cat will still nip your lip if you’ll tickle me with your lengthy missive toe.”
     “I hope the length doesn’t become tedious for you.”
     She says, “Some are worth absorbing from top to bottom.”
     I breathe deep the heady aroma of her perfume, feeling her moist kiss like a sign of the times.