The Space We Take

She wears a high skirt, a short tank, her hair down, her lashes out. The men turn. She takes their attention. They stare. She takes up their space.   --   The man tells her I want all of this, but I don't want to pay. She places broad strokes on the canvas. The colors mix. The forms and colors run, like sidewalk chalk drawings in the rain. You take up all my space, he tells her. Nothing here is mine.  She nods, agreeing.  --  When summer comes she is busy moving clothes from rods and hangers and drawers and bins and she goes up the stairs and down the stairs and some clothes go on and some go off and this kaleidescope of fabric covers every surface and the mirrors are full of reflections in sun dresses and halter tops and straps and strapless and sandals and flats and heels and updos and ponytails and over the shoulder stares and it goes on this way for hours until sunset when the last bin is carried to the attic and then she says now, now I am ready to rest.  --  The men are not interested in words. They want to see the game. The fight. The people chasing balls, chasing one another, swinging, hitting, slapping, punching. The men are sweaty. They are always sweaty. They are hot, even on the couch.  --  The moon is up. A fan swirls. The window open. Tonight she sleeps alone. Maybe, she tells herself, in the morning, in the morning he will come.   --