Cross my heart By shirley poulton We find our hero and heroine, the very picture of ro-mance, waltzing with seeming ecstasy to the strains of melody that fill the ballroom. Joyce, a petite blond, gazes rapturously into the eyes of George and, beginning the usual routine, says, "You dance divinely, George," (My sandal will never look the same after that last dig.) "Thank you, honey chile. You're not so worse yourself." (The same old stuff. I expected something original from her.) "Oh, George, that's the end of the dance, and I was enjoying it so." (One more bar of music and I know I should have screamed). "But you know, Joyce, all good things must come to an end." (Thank heaven for that). "You're so clever. You can always think of the right thing to say." (That last crack of his was painful. I'll bet he lay awake nights thinking of it.) "By the way, Joyce, did I remember to tell you how wonderful you look tonight. You're simply scumptious, and that's no lie." (That ought to get her.) "Oh, George, you're kidding me." (I might have known that was coming.) "No, honestly, my sweet." (She does look rather cute. It's too bad she hasn't any brains to go with those beautiful blue eyes.) "Well, it's nice to hear you say it even if you don't mean it." (I must look naive or he never would try this line out on me.) After a few more twirls around the floor, our hero again addresses his ladylove. "It's about time for the orchestra to fold up. How's about getting out of here before the stampede gets under way." (One more dance with this gal and I'll have to be carried out.) "It's o. k. with me. Anything you say." (I wish he'd had this brilliant idea twelve dances ago.) Half an hour later we find Joyce and George riding about in search of something to stave off the gnawing pains of hunger. "Do you like hamburgers, Joyce?" (I hope she loathes them. I haven't the courage to look one in the face.) "Oh, I love them, George." (Hallelujah! I might have known he's the hamburger type. Hamburgers! Ugh!) "Good! Let's stop at Sloppy Joe's. He has the best in town." (I sure got myself in for something this time.) "That's a grand idea, George." (That's the last straw! Sloppy Joe's and hamburgers! And after the workout I've been through.) After our friends have eaten the last morsel of their hamburgers we hear Joyce exclaim. "Now, that's what I call delish. It just hit the spot." (I wonder if they slipped a cockroach in it, or maybe that was just horse meat.) "Yes. Mighty tasty, mighty tasty. Fit for a king." (Well, I got it down, anyway. If she only knew what a struggle it was.) "And now to head for the old barn and hit the hay. It's sure been a honey of a night. I hate to see it end." (Like hell!) "It's been swell, George, I have-n't enjoyed a dance so for I don't know how long. It guess it must have been your dancing. I just can't get over it." (Yeah, in more ways than one.) "I'll ring you up again some time, Joyce. We'll have to repeat this little escapade, that is, if a cute little trick like you will go with a lug like me." (Never again will she have the pleasure of my company. I survived this evening, but I'm not going to tempt fate again.) "Yes, do call me. I would love to go again. (Not if I'm Still in my right sense will he have the privilege of escorting me.) "Yep, I had a swell time." "Honestly, George?" "Scout honor. How about you?" "Grand, cross my heart." MOON GLOWS She says the moon's a silver silver Tossed on midnight seas To sail for ports unknown to us; Its stops? Uncertainties. But she's a poet. The moon's a crystal toy to him, That's dripping shiv'ring beams To fill his tiny hands He gurgles o'er his gleams, But he's a child. The moon's an ashtray gray and thin, Where ashes of the night Drop dead as life itself will drop And vanish out of sight. But he he scoffs at God. Yet all of them are very wrong; Across it, bars of steel. A glint of gray that points the way To sleep, eternal real But I I killed a man. By aurline osmond Page Twenty-two Ah, Love! could thou and I with Fate conspire To grasp this sorry scheme of things entire, Would not we shatter it to bits and then Remold it nearer to the heart's desire! omar khayyam Page Twenty-three