"No way this fellow from Warsaw is old enough to have parents who experienced World War II or even its immediate aftermath," but damned if he doesn’t see Stalin outlined by the October corn stalks, Stalin standing with his pipe in hand against a pale blue evening sky. The guy’s latest girlfriend unknowingly displays her anxiety by gripping his arm ever tighter as he gestures toward Stalin and traces the generalissimo’s silhouette with his finger.
“But you promised me a foot massage before we have to go inside,” she pouts, and with that, she plops down among the corn stalks. For some reason, Mr. Warsaw’s hesitant to automatically follow suit, and he keeps outlining Stalin puffing on his pipe, until he feels the girl reach up and unbutton his fly. He registers surprise that she’s this far ahead of the schedule he detailed to himself only yesterday for when she’d allow him to sleep on her belly for the first time.
Soon he does drop down beside her and does start to untie the sneaker on her closest foot. He advances further than that, but he takes his time undressing her, and at each stage of the process, he makes an elaborate ceremony out of things, for he’s decided his desire for her shouldn’t be unlike what he’s heard the Soviets craved and got from Polish women those many, many years ago, when the Red Army stormed in and liberated the capital of the nation.
© William C. Blome
Bio: William C. Blome writes poetry and short fiction. He lives wedged between Baltimore and Washington, DC, and he is a Master’s degree graduate of the Johns Hopkins University Writing Seminars. His work has previously seen the light of day in such fine little mags as Poetry London, PRISM International, Fiction Southeast, Roanoke Review, Salted Feathers and The California Quarterly.