Tinder Date: The Grammarian Take off your language she said and I removed my shirt, one verb at a time. She ran her hands over my adjectives, pinched the apostrophes. Slowly she disrobed syllable by lacy syllable, pushed me against the wall like she was the only exclamation point in a novel. Her tongue wrote cursive inside my mouth. The bed lay vacant like pages of an unfinished manuscript, the rising action about to climax. And then our limbs diagrammed sentences. And our nouns. O those nouns. They traded diphthongs, rearranged consonants until our vowels howled like coyotes shouting plurals across the night. We lit the sky with commas, quotations in bold type before our parentheses collapsed. So what if our sentences ended with prepositions. We had written the first chapter. Our conjunctions had more than functioned and our bodies dangled like participles. But there was still more to conjugate.
Beeper Peddle is a writer and healer living on the East Coast. She lives with her partner and their beloved soul puppy. Beeper writes about sorrows, lies, and deep loves. When you read her work, you will dip down into her heart and end up in all manner of body parts. Should you find yourself reflected in these words, it is merely coincidence; however, it does not surprise her you share the same heart. Find her at bethpeddle.com and @beeperpeddle on Twitter and Instagram
John Davis is a polio survivor. His work has appeared recently in DMQ Review, Iron Horse Literary Review and Terrain.org. He lives on an island in the Salish Sea..
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