“It’s a sun-kissed day by this coastal balustrade.
Lovely, isn’t it?” as he caught the lady alone,
Her wine-in-hand resting on the iron-arched railing.
But in her silence he sensed the subtlest fade,
So he turned to a more pressing, pursuant tone:
“The smell of seafoam inspires some sailing…”
He trimmed it off on her whimper of a groan,
His eyes tracing the profile of her berouged cheekbone,
Hung by the moment, too daft to judge its jade.
She shifted then to assess the stranger’s face,
And hid in her words a spritz of peppered mace:
“Wow! Has anyone ever likened you to Leo DiCaprio?”
He deigned against pride, false primness in its place,
Shirking, “No! But to Leo, the comparison’s no disgrace…”
“Good,” She sprayed, “‘Cause you more favor Quasimodo.”
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