Undercovers

It's at the hoppy end of a Red Rocket ale that she walks in.
I set down the glass, slow; and catch her with a fractal-second eye-hook.
The jazz joint is mellow, always easy, faces there; the usual faces:
There's Jim eating a slice and sucking down beer in his leather and hair-do.
Mooney on the sax, in glasses, doing it again, always perfect, always right there.
There's Jane, my lady, placid and feline across the table in Thursday evening dress.

But she walks in and the air shifts; a certain static awakes between my skull and the room and there's that grin sneaking up again.
She's with somebody, a guy, her guy for the while, I'm supposing, then.
That's how she is: breif, there, always wide-eyed and elusive.
Not the kind of girl you could look for, and expect to find.
So we're here now, both kinda tied down with the ole' ball&chain, you know.

That's when the electricity kicks in. You wouldn't see it from a distance. Hell, nobody sitting right next to me had any clue what we were up to; that we were up to anything to begin with.
Eyes engage for a split pin-head of a second, and there we are:

Under covers again!
rolling around mad laughter in the bosom of god herself, madly in love making love with the universe reflecting each others eyes and both of us perfect now, always perfect.

Her guy yawns and checks his watch.
My lady eats a slice and gossips.

And we are undercovers!
secret agents telling secret smiles that only we know, could ever know.
Secrets that are us and only us and god herself,
a chemical reaction,
a whispered explosion.

Agent K,
it's a fucking thrill.