Chicken Fried Destiny

         “Why so down?” he asked as he leaned on her counter.  She only flipped a page in her notebook and continued to scribble.

         "My father’s sick.  Doctors don’t think he has long left” she said not looking up.

         “That’s a good reason”, her apparent disinterest piqued his curiosity.  “Is there anything I can do?”

         “No, but thank you” she still did not look up.

         “You sure? I can bring some fried chicken or something…”

         “Um, I think that’s for, you know…after”, at last she looked up but with a tinge of disgust on her face. “Funerals”.
         
         “Not true.”

         “No?” she snorted.

         “Nope.  When I moved here last week, the widow next door brought me a plate of it as a welcome gift.”  He leaned over her counter a bit to glance into her notebook.      “Since that happened, I didn’t think it that big of a stretch to offer it as comfort”.

         “Really now”, she said, moving the notebook away from him.

         “Really.”

         “We southerners can be funny about food.” She resumed her scribbles.

         “Especially the Colonel.”

         “How so?” He was amused by her sudden interest in the conversation.

         “Well, he’s there for welcomings and there for goodbyes.  You could almost say he’s an “agent of change””

         “That’s an interesting observation.  I can totally see that.” She seemed to be relaxing a bit.

         “What’s that you’re doing over there?” he asked motioning to her notebook.

         “Oh, nothing really.  Writing poetry.” She pulled the notebook to her chest.

         “Wow, really?  Can I read it?”

         “Come on now, I barely know you” she said as she closed the notebook and placed it beneath her counter.

         “And yet we’ve already discussed family deaths and fried chicken.  I mean, I know its not soul baring art or anything, but still pretty personal.    Especially the part about the chicken.”

         “I guess you’re right” she smiled playfully.  “Here” She took the closed notebook from beneath the counter and handed it to him.

         “This is poetry?” he said, flipping through the pages.  “All I see are sketches… no words.”  He tilted the open notebook toward her.  “Like this for example,” he said turning to the last page with something on it, “it just looks like you drew a pair of lips to me.”
         
         “What” she said with surprised concern “you mean you don’t see the poetry in it?”

         “No, not really.  I mean, I see drawings and sketches and all, but no poetry”.  She glared at him.  “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded” he fumbled.  “They’re really very good, but not what I thought you were talking about.”

         “Bring it here and I’ll show you” she was irritated and apparently offended.  She moved toward him and pushed away the extended notebook, knocking it to the floor.  She had her fingers clutched behind his head and her lips against his before he could even react to catch the notebook.  Alarmed and surprised, he clenched shut initially, but he relaxed and allowed her tongue to play against his.  He suddenly realized that he was standing there with his arms at his side like an idiot.  As he moved to put his arms around her and pull her closer, she reached her face up to his ear.
         
         “Now tell me that wasn’t fucking poetry” she whispered with a kiss to his earlobe.  Then she turned and walked away.

         “Hey!” He was still stunned.  She half turned and looked at him, one eyebrow raised.          “Wha…what are you doing here?  I mean, why here…at this place?”

         She considered his question and laughed.

         “I guess I’m just waiting for the Colonel”, she said as she walked out the door.