Small talk

Come evening we sit in the front room-you with your chamomile and I have my crossword puzzle on my lap. I swear when I make a mistake in ink.

The phone rings across the room. I cough. You turn your head once, but you don’t get up. I claim I can tell it is a telemarketer by the tone.

“Is there any beer?”
I continue working on 23 down, not answering.
“Is there any beer?”
“There is no beer.” I write in the answer.

The clock strikes 8.
I put down the puzzle.
“Meet you there?”
“Well it is Monday night.”
“So it is. Did you?”
“Yes, of course.”

I stand in the doorway in crimson.
I wear only black, but I promised to always wear
his favourite color red on Mondays.
“A new one. Lace?”

we lie very still
he on his side and I on my back
He makes a pretense of coughing.
“Your hair looks like satin in this light”

“And you look like the boy I met on the train.”
“Was that 1988?”
“You know it was.”
“Best day ever.”
Smoke rings at the ceiling speak of it.

I sit cross-legged while he brushes my hair. Every few strokes he leans forward and speaks directly into my ear, whispering
“I love Mondays.”

“Did you say you bought roses?”
“Red ones, two dozen”
“Where are they?”
“I saw you were home and ran in quickly. They must be in my car.”
I smile.

I lie on my side and he on his back. I push hair off his forehead with a delicate gesture. He closes his eyes.

“Let’s lay here until Tuesday.”

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