For Valentine’s Day, among other things, Laura gave me a red silk tie. It was very nice, but there are not a lot of occasions to wear a tie here on the Cape. Make that no occasions. We spend most of the time when away from the house strolling along the beach, day and night. At night the stars are so bright, but I can’t locate the Big Dipper, which is the only constellation I know. Finally, frustrated, I looked it up on-line. It turns out that this time of year this far south the Big Dipper is mostly below the horizon. So we content ourselves with Venus.

One night it was foggy, and we couldn’t see any stars, say nothing of the Big Dipper, say nothing of Venus. It was fun kissing in the night in the fog, surrounded by the sound of the sea. “It’s like being inside a conch,” Laura said between kisses. Soon my hand was inside her pants. Soon my fingers were inside her. “My cunch,” she whispered. That’s the word I heard.

That night when we were making love, I told her, “Your cunch feels so good.”

“Can you feel my sea?” she asked. “My slippery surging sea.”

In the morning in the shower I wanted to make love again, but Laura held me off. “Soon,” she said. I contented myself with soaping her and scrubbing her and rinsing her and drying her off. She was almost dry when she said, “I was thinking about the stars in story. The one about the tie.”

I didn’t remember it at first. Laura said, “This guy and this girl are driving along in his mother’s funeral procession. He’s wearing a tie.”

“Oh, now I remember, kind of...”

“What I was thinking was it’s time for you to wear the tie I got you.”

“Does this have to do with a funeral?”

“No—why would you think that?”

“So wear it where?”

“Around your neck.”

“I know, but what place?”

“Right here, silly.”

“But will it work with a tee shirt?”

“No tee shirt,” Laura said. “Nothing but the tie.”

So I put on the tie. Laura adjusted it so it hung lower. “Remember what happens in the story?” she said.

“Sort of,” I said.

“Your Big Dipper,” she said. “I’ve found it!”

Impetuous by Mat Twassel

Tom’s Spider crept up on the hearse. Now that they were out in the country, the long line of automobiles was stretching out.

“I’m sorry I didn’t know your mother better,” Lisa said. She brushed the fine blond hair away from her face, but the May breeze blew it right back over her eyes.

Tom smiled at her. “I’m sure she would have wanted to know you better, too.”

“Not likely, from what you said before,” Lisa quipped. “What was it you said she thought I was? Imprecative?”

“No, I’m sure not.”

“Impre ... Im-something. Imprecarious?”

“Impetuous,” Tom said.

“That’s it. Impetuous. But I’m not,” Lisa said firmly. “I’m not wild at all. Inside I’m quite sedate, really. In my deep-downest heart. Do English hearses always go so fast?”

“I don’t know,” Tom said. “This is my first one. And maybe what my mother meant was that I was impetuous. Taking up with you.”

“With me?”

“When she said, ‘that impetuous American girl,’ she...”

“What exactly did you tell her about me?”

“That I was dazzled. That you were dazzling. That I was...”

“Dazzled?”

“Yes. Beguiled by your sweet but naughty smile. Bewitched by your bright blue eyes. Bedazzled by your long honey blond hair and your even longer honey blond legs.”

“You said all that? To your mother?”

“She wanted to know everything about you. I wanted to tell her everything about you.”

“Tell me, Tom, did you say anything about the hair between my legs? That it was long or honey blond or anything like that?”

“No, I ... you know I’ve never seen it, I...”

“Just joking,” Lisa said. “I love it when you get flustered. Flustered and flummoxed.”

“I’m not flustered.”

“Not even a little? Not even a teensy weensy bit flustered?”

“No.”

“Just flummoxed?”

“No!”

“Okay, have it your way. The red in your face is from the wind. The awful English wind. I do wish it would let up a little. My honey blond hair will be a total mess if it isn’t already.”

“The hair on your head or the hair between your legs?”

“Oh, you think you’re so clever.” Lisa ruffled Tom’s dark curly locks. “How do you know I even have any hair between my legs? Or whether it’s honey blond. If I do have hair there.”

They took a curve.

“Are you considering?” Lisa asked.

“Yes, considering,” Tom said.

“Considering my hair down there?”

Tom smiled.

“If I shaved my head it would solve the problem of all this blowing. How come your tie doesn’t flare up?”

“I don’t know,” Tom said. “Perhaps it’s a heavy tie. Pure silk, I believe.”

“A nice tie,” Lisa stated. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wear a tie before.”

“It’s my only tie,” Tom said. “My mum gave it to me, actually.”

“She did!” Lisa exclaimed softly. “She gave you a tie for her own funeral?”

“No, no. This was years ago. For my first job interview.”

“Well, it’s not by any means an impetuous tie.”

“I got the job, even though the job didn’t require the wearing of ties.”

“Such a deep deep blue. Sort of sexy. Nothing but blue. I like things simple sometimes.”

“You do?”

“Yes, but that still doesn’t explain why your tie doesn’t flutter up. You don’t have it pinned or anything? You’re not cheating?”

“What, you think I have it weighted down?”

“Don’t look so smug.” Lisa smoothed her fingertips along the front of the tie. “It is nice,” she said. “Nice and smooth and silky. Your mother had good taste.”

A gap opened up between Tom’s Spider and the hearse. Tom put his foot down and shifted. The gap closed. Lisa played with the tie.

“You think she didn’t like me just because I’m a Yank?”