Indigenous Elvis at the Airport

Indigenous Elvis works security: Chief Joseph hair, blue-black and pomped, turquoise and shell dangling from one ear, silver chunks of rings on every bronze knuckle. Indigenous Elvis works security: X-ray glances at your backpacks, laptops, empty still-moist shoes. Indigenous Elvis waves me to his line. A perfect gentlemen at all times, gingerly lifting my naked phone, holding the line as I return my computer and extra undies to my briefcase. Next line, next flight, Indigenous Elvis eases in too close, asks, "Where you headed this time?" Subtle tango, I lean away, wondering what it is he saw first gave me away— My beaded barrettes in their travel case? A slight turn to my eyes? Oh, mortification when I get him! Indigenous Elvis, at security, a third time. He lifts my carry-on, maneuvers my hand, gestures me close to ask, "How is my sweetheart?" Then against my neck, so my hairs rise with his sight, "How’s my sweetheart doing … your sister … ? ... the one that got away."