I’m a sabateuse. I’m a stealthy secret agent. I’ll smile while I loosen screws under the table. I’ll set a trap of neediness, bait it with self-consciousness. I’ll casually ignite my fear and doubt. I’m a triple agent. Can you be a quadruple agent? Sometimes I can’t remember what I’m working for.
Sideways glace and eyelash flutter as, with a carefully-studied clumsiness, I nudge a priceless vase from its ledge.
But you are a super spy-- master of disguises, weapons expert, nimble ninja in baseball cap and sneakers. You disable my explosives and sidestep my trap. With three back handsprings, only visible in slow-motion replay, you extend an arm to catch the vase before it can hit the floor.
And when the table collapses, you say we never needed that table anyway.
I should come with a warning, “This girl will self-destruct within four months.” But I’m afraid you aren’t going to let me.
~beatrix
