Master of The Two Worlds

   I’m old enough to be her father. In the lunge, our teeth clash. If there were soft and rosy lips gently upturned, presently they are engaged in curses. I do too. “Sorry,” I say.
   She holds her arms out. “Again,” she says.
  “Minute,” I say, hand up. I rub my gums. Remember my traffic cop days, one stop-hand in the air, the other vigorously waving. “Got some blood.”
  “God, it doesn’t matter,” she says.
  “Might,” I say, and for once I’m not extemporizing. While we’d stood there the day had closed down around us. The white grey of the sky had become the gauzy haze of a mist, and we might have been nowhere if we weren’t still standing in mud. And figures were moving ahead of us.
  “Are they in the water?” I say.
   And behind.
  “Move!” she says.
   I’m not too worried. We’ve been here before. So meanwhile, I smile. Which is absurd. That was no kind of kiss really. I smile anyway.