“You know we're not going out”
she tells me
a couple days
b4 NYE
round the twenty-eighth ninth kinna thing
“you know that”.
And I do...did
I know we're not going out,
I was high
mistook
intoxicated
by love kinna
love for this plastic fantastic fascisti,
we're not going out
but I could buy her drugs though
take her home
chat for more than ninety minutes about the Neo-Realists on the phone
she could finish texts
with a couple of 'x's
sometimes three
you know
I'm connect with this handsome Italian
and I leave her at the door
of her home.
We make our choice in the first ten minutes
or is it seconds?
I don't recall,
the decision is made.
She got to no
on the second date
somewhere between the Whitechapel Gallery and Nobu,
but my heart stopped for nine months for you
this hopeless cause.
“I don't think I wanna get married” she tells me
outside Wagamama's
“or have a child”
Nod
try to smile
avoid eyes.
NYE
2014
we're not going out
but we could go to the same party
it was too late to change plans;
she finds a seat at the opposite end
beside an urbane
doctor-divorcee
named Andrew,
I open the champagne.
At midnight they kissed
tongues ****** enquiringly out
like anteaters
faces turned inwards
a two-headed god
swaying to Britney Spears
on the dance-floor.
I retreat to the other room
but at four o'clock
look around
they're still here;
Jesus! How long does it take to have ***?! Get your coat already!
Five forty-five
she wants to speak to me
her beautiful face defiant and angry
“You wanna share a cab?”
I'm silent stunned,
“You know we're not going out”
I think
but don't say,
we could share a cab though
a cuckolded chaperone
I know that
it's 2015.
© Gabriel K
The sequel to this is entitled: #9