The Giver and the Gifts

"A woman, seeking love, offers sex," I replied. "Breasts are intimations of intimacy. They're gifts that promise more, like the bouquets of roses a man gives to a woman he admires. Flowers are promises, too--promises of love." I rolled my eyes, chuckling. "Of course, they're not always promises kept."

"You're quite a philosopher," Brad told me.

I swallowed. The air, rushing past the interior of his open convertible, was warm on this sultry summer's night, and had a fresh, spicy scent, not unlike men's semen. "I wanted to be a poet once, actually," I confided in him.

"Do you remember any of the poems you wrote, when you wanted to be a poet?"

I smiled. "One or two."

"Could I hear one?"

"This one is called 'Breast Friends.' The title is silly, but the sentiments, I hope, are not." Having introduced the verse, I recited the poem:

A rose is a vow, solemn as a nun's, By which a man pledges eternal love, A flower as radiant as the sun's Warm light, which, like the rainbow set above The flood, by God, to remind mortal Men and women that he has chosen grace, Not judgment, so his covenant annulled Shall never be, prompts the beloved her lace To open, thus to bestow upon him Who pledges love an intimation of Intimacy, a stem that to the limb Of passion joins, that ripened fruit of love Be not forbidden, not denied. My breasts, Bared to his view, do, to these things, attest.

Brad looked surprised. Lifting his hands from the steering wheel, he applauded. "A sonnet!" he cried. "It's lovely. May I hear another?"

"Keep your hands on the wheel, please!" I admonished him.

Sheepishly, he gripped the wheel again. The wind continued to rush past us in great, warm waves, tousling Brad's auburn hair and making a swirling mess of my blonde tresses.

I realized that I was attracted to Brad, and he seemed to be attracted to me. Was there a basis for a deeper bond, a more intimate union, between us? I wondered. His reaction to my next poem would suggest the answer, and, smitten as I was with him, I wanted, almost desperately, to know. "This one is called 'The Gift,'" I said, reciting the poem before I lost my nerve: