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Amanda
by
C.B. Anderson
What Amanda demanded,
Amanda usually
got.
She handed me
a bucket and a
mop
and told me not
to stop till all
the floors were
clean.
She wasn't really
mean, but had
a way
of giving orders
that was somewhere
near the border
in between a sergeant
and a cop.
It beggared understanding
why a man would
let this pass,
but nonetheless,
Amanda ran the
show.
Full knowing that
my meager brass
was hardly in
her league, I
polished all the
silverware
and planned a
Sunday brunch,
then dared to
light a candle
on a hunch. She
said she'd let
me know.
Quite candidly
she swore she'd
make a man of
me
no matter what
it took. I knew
that look.
Obligingly, I
turned the covers
down and fluffed
the pillows, lying
there until she
climbed
astride of me
and drove me dry.
She hove aside
when done, remanded
to her bedside
book.
But when she mentioned
that she planned
to foster racetrack
greyhounds...
"Stop! Enough's
enough,"
I said.
She kissed me
on the head and
thanked me, called
me her
Commander Anderson,
and ironed my
shirts.
It was a turnabout
that earned my
wonderment,
to have Amanda
pandering instead.
©
2007
by C.B. Anderson
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