The Lexicographer's Rules

Something incredibly appealing about her overbite. Maybe something childish, kicks in my hard wiring, makes me concerned, fatherly, motherly, protective. She’s got a hold of my idle brain cycles. English-Israeli, if there’s such a thing. Yes, Israeli woman number two. Coincidence, but who knows? Four languages. World-travelled. Soft, doughy, smooth, skin, thick wrists. Shiny, straight hair, colored, sure, but nice. Curvy, unconscious of it, but classy, stylish, though sedate, conservative. Smells like. Smells, well, like tomato blossoms. Yes. And gold eyes. Last pair of eyes like that, lovely Julia, who met, married and moved to Israel with a man in two weeks. These eyes, though, sun perch, harvest moon, goldenrod, bear honey. We talk. Her mouth moves, words issue, I hear, I feel, I respond. Later, I remember nothing. Says nothing about herself, or am I lost, deaf, blind? Vedi, good man, cuts out early. Leaves us two, talking, ignoring the task at hand, explaining the world to each other.

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