"the beautiful mothers of new orleans..."

I saw this craigslist post a few days ago, and saved it. It fascinated me, as it was both creepy...and beautiful...and, well, ok, kind of hot too.
I'm just saying, if I were a beautiful mother of New Orleans, I'd be all up on this, creepy or not.
There, I said it.
I just enjoyed his writing, that's all.

The Beautiful Mothers of New Orleans - m4w (Uptown)

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Reply to: pers-729256164@craigslist.org
Date: 2008-06-23, 2:15AM CDT
Missed Connection:

We see you leaving the specialty grocery store wearing workout shorts. We wonder what the material would feel like between a pinched finger and thumb. You have a 5k t-shirt and an expensive purse. We wish we could see where your careful tan turns pale.

This is how it will work. We will see you poring over the selection of dark chocolate in the second aisle of the store.

"That's good," we'll say.
"Is it?"
"Delicious."

We will talk. You'll hold out your taut arms as you gesture, each word another chance to display your personally trained body and layered hair. We listen to your slightly raspy voice, which sounds like wisdom or at least experience. We listen and watch your loose gold watch dangle on your wrist.

"Do you need a ride home?" you'll ask.
"Yes," we'll say, though we live next to the grocery, or behind it, or are proud owners of a 1997 Volvo. The car would stay in the lot.

We help you pile all the groceries in the back of your SUV. Baguettes protrude lewdly from paper bags. The milk is skim and we'll touch your forearm when we nestle it behind the salmon and organic bagels.

"You should have lunch with me," you'll say.
"OK," we will reply.

And then, suddenly, we'll be out of the SUV and in your strange house, our arms filled with bags. We'll look around and see the art preening on your walls, the vases evaporating water, and the little signs that a whole family lives here: a stray video game controller; two dropped corn chips; the benevolent face of your husband staring from the mantle.

"Would you like a drink?" you'll ask.
"It's 12 noon."

You'll pour red wine into expensive glasses, and as it flows we press you against your marble counter, hands on the edge of a cool electric range. Your gym shorts are in between our fingers and they feel like shoelaces and satin. Your hair smells like citrus shampoo and your kisses taste like healthy fruits.

We won't go to the bed because this won't be about simple blasphemies or betrayals. We stay there in the kitchen, and when we look down at you we'll notice that the tile was a custom job. The tile will squeak when you twist your body but we will both stay silent.

When it's over, we'll ask you for a ride back to the grocery. We'll sit in the front seat and notice, for the first time, the child's soccer schedule on the dashboard.

"What position do they play?" we'll ask.

You won't answer, and that will make us happy. You'll drop us off at the grocery, our hands shoved in our pockets, waiting in the heat until our own sweat will wash off yours.

It won't be until you're gone that we'll realize you took our groceries.