Primitive Appeal

Ron Koppelberger

Primitive Appeal

The asphalt was hot against his hands, hot, aching, searing. When he pulled his hands away a chorus of befuddling, repentant exclamations poured from his grimacing lips, “ Oh Jesus, Jesus God!!” he gasped. The palms of his hands were inflamed and the skin near the tips of his fingers was burned. “ Jesus God almighty!!!” he whispered as he gently brushed the loose bits of gravel away.
The salesclerk had said the shoes were a perfect primitive temptation.
“ Tha ladies love the primitive look.” she had exclaimed. “ oooooooooohhhhhhhhhhoooooo, haw nice. He looked down at his burned hands and the crazy stitch of the leather and fur; He dreamed in that moment, he saw lions and tigers on the hunt and in quandary with the suns heat and the morning chill. He saw horseflies as big as quarters and dime sized mosquitoes. “ Ahhhhhhhhhhhhaaaaaahhhhhhhaaaaaaa.” he sighed at ease with the dream.
The fine spray of intimate incense blossomed before him like some grand unfurling cloak of sanctity. Rose blush and attar, perfumed in excellent attire, fine-spun gold hewn tundra’s and the love of nightfall baptisms, “ Wild man, wild,” he shook his head and the fog abated for a moment. “ Wild man, those are friggen wild.” The attractive teenage girl smiled slyly and winked. In that moment he forgot the trip to the hot asphalt and the badly fitting shoes became the temptation of primitive desire. He smiled back and said, “Thanks.”
Later that evening he would reflect on the primitive appeal of the shoes and the phone number of the young woman. Once again he thought of tigers, wolves and lions. “ Primitive appeal indeed.” he whispered in quiet reverie.