The Tourist Shop

The tourist shop

I walked into a tourist shop
Where many tourists are
Funny hats and beachtowels
Beside a tourist bar

The temperature was rising
And the shop was dark and cool
A silence and a refuge
From the radio and pool.

I lifted this and fingered that
The shop girl said hello
And went back to her magazine
But touched herself below

I looked away embarrassed
And cast around the aisles
There was no-one in the shop but us
I looked again – she smiled.

I was rooted there and sweating
My pulse was rising fast
She closed her eyes and trembled
Her hair fell to her breast.

If she’d wanted me to come to her
I wouldn’t know the way
One seat behind a counter full
Of silver rings and trays

Her heavy-lidded eyes on me
She quickened up her pace
I stared and watched the tiny drops
Of sweat across her face.

Quietly she climaxed
With a slight arch of the neck
Her breath the only sound I heard
Against the desk she flexed.

Suddenly the shadows moved
And people wandered in
White hats and baggy boxer shorts
And reddish peeling skin.

She glanced up from the magazine
Still open on her knee
She stroked her hair and greeted them
And looked not once at me.

© Norman Lamont 2004