Meeting a mermaid

A mermaid spoke to me just this morning.
She was in the shower, sitting astride the soap dish.
She wouldn't tell me her name,
said she wasn't from around here,
that I wouldn't know her folks, anyway.

We talked about yesterday's weather,
and guessed at the temperature of the water
that hit us both
like bubble bullets,
and (this got very deep)
about life.
Mine.
Not her's.

She was interested in the fact
that I was a heavy sleeper,
love thunderstorms,
gray horses at the track,
kittens but not cats,
that sometimes I cry in old movies,
the kind where James Stewart loses his wife
or where Shirley Temple is feeling rejected.

And she seemed especially interested
that I love children
and have an affinity for those
who are feisty
appreciate not being talked down to by adults.

She persuaded me to tell about my first love.
Ahhhh. Wanda Burkett,
red hair the color of cherry carrots,
teeth the size of ping pong balls,
freckles too numerous to count.
A true woman,
the first to get the glands of a 13-year-old
East Texas hickernut all a-dither.

The mermaid also liked my corny jokes,
especially the one about Nome, Alaska,
and she asked me to tell her some funny stories.
She laughed when I remarked,
with a studied serious expression,
that I was one punny fellow.

I decided I liked the way her bottom lip
wrinked in the middle when she laughed.
That was a spur of the moment decision,
one I believe I will retain.

She laughed some more,
as did I,
and I got a mouthful of water
and spat it in her direction.
She looked pleased I took the time to notice her.

Turning off the water, I said goodbye.
She smiled . . . and was gone.

That was just this morning.

Oh, sorry! Look at the time.
I have to go.

Time for another shower.