Proposition

Do you want to fuck me?
she says
and the strap of her filmylacything
slides down her shoulder
as if to
punctuate...
her...
question.

I wonder why she has no thought
of the room around us--
clinking glasses and polite chitchat;
or even the ring that I'm nervously sliding
around a trembling finger.

Relentless, driving
her palm works its way, kneadingly
up my thigh,
pausing
(why'd you stop)
to
ask
some banal question
as if she didn't just offer herself
on a fucking silver platter.

Jade eyes rimmed with ebony
sear the flesh exposed by my errant shirt button;
and she knows I would give in--
even if her thumb wasn't sliding ever higher
on the inside of my thigh.

It would be so easy,
she whispers as I lean over to hear her.
Who questions two women going to the ladies' room?