the girl scout and the debutante

the girl scout: girl scout debutants slick their hair but not the ones on their heads HEY break me off a piece of that kit kat bar see I watched this woman from the back her long lustery brown hair obscuring her curves venus bundles of luxurious flesh wondering who she was seeing everybody I know talking to her wondering why I don't already know her noticing while she read dark eyebrows and dark eyes and lips the shade of lipstick automatic beauty totally MISS natural wearing the outfit I would only try on and never walk out of lane bryants with she has this nerdy smart girl speech and this sassy poem she speaks and she doesn't wear underwear and I know for certain this is not fiction without direct evidence but her skirt is unbuttoned way up above the knees and I think: this girl knows she is sexy and I want to talk to her and I do o wow I love your poem and she quotes my own old tired poem back at me and I'm like I haven't met you before and she's like yawn o yes you have absolutely DISMISSING me and she turns away and I'm all like HOW did I blow it?

the debutante: So here's what really happened: She's workin' the room, only I don't know it. She flirts with every single woman there, but do I know that? No, I think it's all for me and I'm flabbergasted. She says to me, "Come to the Slam, and just wear that outfit, model for the judges and you will get the perfect score." And of course I know it's a line but do I care? No, I do not. And we flirt and she flirts and we flirt and I flirt and then suddenly it dawns on me that I'm out of my depth, over my head, and I freak. Mid-sentence, mid-conversation, I twirl my car keys, say I gotta go, and damned if I don't walk out on her. Was she really flirting with me, I wonder, or am I as self-involved as I think I am? So I write a poem in which she flirted with me and I didn't imagine it and that makes it real and I know I gotta see her again. (serene rebel and cute-poet-chick)
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