Betty sips her drink and crosses
her legs and wonders if Chowbrew
will ever come as he said he would
and as she has been waiting for
over an hour she thinks he’s not
coming, thinks he’s gone off with
another. She sighs. All that time getting
ready, putting on the new dress,
making sure she’d put on fresh
underwear, showered, washed
her hair, filed her nails and still
he hasn’t come. Betty, her mother
used to say, men are like buses,
if one doesn’t turn up another’ll soon
show, but it didn’t follow in her
experience; if one didn’t show,
she’d be left waiting until the bright
moon shone and the shining stars
flickered in the dark night sky, and
then she’d go home to bed, tuck
herself under the duvet, pull it
over head, and cry or swear or
maybe both. She looks at her
wristwatch. He isn’t going to
come; she mutters to the air,
he’s left me out to dry, all that
time I wasted; now I’m going
to cry. Betty, her mother often
said, men have only one thing
in mind, oh, yes, they’ll bring
you flowers, chocolates, buy
you a meal, get you drunk,
but at the end of it all, it’s
getting you into bed that they
are after, and she remembers,
in the background her father’s soft
laughter. She empties her glass
and is just about to leave, when
a breathless Chowbrew stumbles
into sight, face flushed, clothes in
disarray, Sorry I’m late, got the
wrong cinema, she hears him say.
What an **** she muses, what a
prat, doesn’t know where he’s
going or what he’s at, but at least
he’s here, she smiles and says,
Good to see you, Chowbrew dear.
Jun 2, 2012
Jun 2, 2012 at 3:09 PM UTC
Betty sips her drink and crosses
her legs and wonders if Chowbrew
will ever come as he said he would
and as she has been waiting for
over an hour she thinks he’s not
coming, thinks he’s gone off with
another. She sighs. All that time getting
ready, putting on the new dress,
making sure she’d put on fresh
underwear, showered, washed
her hair, filed her nails and still
he hasn’t come. Betty, her mother
used to say, men are like buses,
if one doesn’t turn up another’ll soon
show, but it didn’t follow in her
experience; if one didn’t show,
she’d be left waiting until the bright
moon shone and the shining stars
flickered in the dark night sky, and
then she’d go home to bed, tuck
herself under the duvet, pull it
over head, and cry or swear or
maybe both. She looks at her
wristwatch. He isn’t going to
come; she mutters to the air,
he’s left me out to dry, all that
time I wasted; now I’m going
to cry. Betty, her mother often
said, men have only one thing
in mind, oh, yes, they’ll bring
you flowers, chocolates, buy
you a meal, get you drunk,
but at the end of it all, it’s
getting you into bed that they
are after, and she remembers,
in the background her father’s soft
laughter. She empties her glass
and is just about to leave, when
a breathless Chowbrew stumbles
into sight, face flushed, clothes in
disarray, Sorry I’m late, got the
wrong cinema, she hears him say.
What an **** she muses, what a
prat, doesn’t know where he’s
going or what he’s at, but at least
he’s here, she smiles and says,
Good to see you, Chowbrew dear.
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