of cigarettes
and mellow jazz
music, of bourbon
splashed over perfect
cubes of ice,
of tight jeans, terse bible
passages, and black
mirrored sunglasses—
it's the little things
like that—tiny touches,
mini mercies—
which make
every scene shot
look cooler, feel hotter:
him and her
wounding each other
with a vengeance
which neither one owns
over the custody of
some common-law MacGuffin;
that TNT look of hers
tunneling through him,
blasting off chunks;
him getting-off
on walking away from it all
feeling lighter, looking thinner;
both of them ignoring
the scars for a while, then
playing them up
for laughs—until
eventually, the entire cast
comes to despise
the puritanical thought
of having to act this
out forever.
