Two Fingers

Scotch
He asks.
Two fingers
I reply, neat.

The tinkling glass
makes me raise a brow
concentric arcs of white swirl
at the bottom.
Don't worry, he says,
it's not ice.
Follow me.

Several turns,
up stairs
two solid doors
Come in and see.

My breath fogs,
cool blue light
wars with sunlight
across the tables
over thin eddies of cloud
near the floor.

"My Ice Queen"
He waves me in pointing
"There she stands
Large as life."

And she is.

Caught in something
between a glare and a giggle.
Frozen like a 3D snapshot
A red fluffy towel
in a loose clasp around her.

She's not ice,
I marvel,
not wax either.
She's beautiful

Frosted sunlight filters
like soft focus on her
white smooth skin
A glint of mischief sparkles
in eyes as blue as ice-chips.
Ash blonde tresses frame
her heart-shaped face

The light plays a trick
as I step around her
the softness gone
hard cold edges remain
a shivers runs up my spine

The mischief Mona Lisa smile
turns to a hateful glare
The ice-chip eyes
burn with laser precision
Frost-bite on her lips
should someone soul kiss her.
The towel gripped like a shield.

He mumbles modesty
clinks his glass
dismissing his miracle,
a charlatan's work.
Look. See.

Another step around,
She changes
a wife stepping
from a shower?
Into a bed?
Toward a lover?
Unthinking,
driven by a dark lust
I reach out
and touch the downy cardinal wrap

It falls
a crimson puddle at her feet
Surprise scalds me
The glass of scotch drops
Edge-first
it shatters
glass shrapnel
against my pant legs.

Smooth and delicate
the curves of her body
no chisel touched this
no hands molded wax
to a frame
Her hands clutch in prayer
near her heart,
a misshaped plead,
one hand not yet complete.

Amber trails like tears
along her legs.
Apologizing,
I bend to dry them with the towel

Amid the debris,
I found them.
wet from the scotch
curled into concentric arcs
white and smooth,
not ice,
not wax.

Two fingers.