I’d give him my confession, grins Elyssa, 
speaking of the gorgeous mystery-solving priest. 
We’re talking British television: Grantchester, 
Outlander. Feuding clans, men sporting kilts. 
I’m less interested in swordplay than knitted scarves 
and tartan weaves. I think world wars should be 
fought on runways: plaid battles, contests 
to design the hottest hemlines. Losers beat 
a retreat and have to don bell bottoms for a year. 
Which isn’t to say I object to a display of muscle—
the wild moors of a Scottish warrior’s pectorals—
or how that English priest dresses to the nines 
and gives in to desire, drinking whiskey at the club, 
jazz thumping. His hair is tousled, bowtie 
undone. Elyssa says she’d slip into his booth 
in sinful gown—something low-cut, the better 
to help him get a few things off her chest.