Ana

I. On Tuesdays,she lingered in the coffeehouse. A gossamer draped lightly from her shoulder, slender fingers clutched a tawny mug. Absentmindedly, she browsed the newspaper. I glanced in her direction furtively and once our gazes even met. In spring, I held the door for her. II. Through summer, her knobby knees protruded beneath a frock of snowy cotton. She laughed, skipping cafés for book stores and boutiques. I yielded under her tender, stable grip; indulged her every whim. Yet the chill of August bristled her flesh. In moments of serenity, those gaunt cheeks betrayed private dolor. III. Autumn settles in. Her merciless remarks strike me down, whittling away flesh to expose bone. I am ensnared. Ana's charms deceive.