Thursday, 02 March 2017
Dark city prowling.
Hiding indoor luxury.
There is a white house, she said.
Outside Piccadilly — meet me there.
I walked in.
It had curvaceous Mediterranean stucco,
Sensual dark grey slate tiles,
With Persian carpets on the floors, and thrown over surfaces,
An impressive collection of Imperial trophies.
Oh, smell of steak!
Seared to perfection, brought to expectant diners.
Staff buzzing, pollinating tables with these and other delights.
I see fresh white cloth.
So, it’s a restaurant.
She invited me. Stranger, guest.
Waiting for her to find me.
Before I find her.
Who is she? I am apprehensive.
I can’t resist the romantic intoxication.
Tipsy and I haven’t even started drinking yet.
She keeps me waiting just long enough to feel it.
I’m idling at the far corner of the bar, taking in the scene,
Watching the door.
From behind, the little hairs on my right ear bristle,
I feel the warmth of her breath, even before I hear her words,
Or her hand delicately placed on my shoulder, or her foot
Gently but firmly kick, just behind my knee, forcing it to buckle.
A little public scene of submission;
hardly anybody noticed, but us.
Auburn hair, hazel eyes.
And the whole evening before us.