Her eyes change color as she reads my poetry, eddies of dark indigo stealing away their familiar pale blue. My palms heat, dampen, as a febrile flush creeps leopard-slow across the milk-pale skin at her collar. She clears her throat, a ragged, earthy sound, and it feels like a desert has formed upon my tongue, weighing it down.
“Good god,” she says. “Quite the steamy little verse.”
I swallow, disappointment unfurling inside my stomach. She doesn’t know it’s for her.
She orders me a medium coffee when the waiter arrives, and smiles flirtatiously. My words lay forgotten beneath her fingers.
(Written for The Prediction. Challenge words: febrile, medium, poetry)