Berliner's Spine Popped

        
He approached me casually in German asking something of me I couldn't understand and yet obviously flirting. That is a language beyond words. The gentle bodily intonations that spark and catch on receivers unseen and universal. I smiled.

He spoke again in English. This time more animated expressing back pain from manual labor. His whit tufts of hair perfectly matched his loud red shirt and scuzzy black pants as he asked for my help. I obliged smilingly and stood.

He turned me around and ordered me to stay, arms firmly planted at my sides. We stood back to back. He pushed his arms through mine as he chuckled slightly and pushed on my back. I hoisted him. Spine popped. He smiled. Danke.

He spoke of art and pot and wooden pipes perfect for smoking and wanting to share. It smelled of tobacco and dried longing. I opened my hand and received. We both smiled.

He left the cafe and hopped on his bike. As he bent over to unlock the lock, I was greed by striped underwear and thick white legs gazing at me from a gigantic tear. Unaware he smiled. Aware I smiled. Together we understood.

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