Saw you
go in
those *** shops
in Stockholm,
she says.

We sit outside
a café in Oslo
drinking coffee
and eating
creams cakes.

Just looking
at the books.

Why?
What so good
about the *******
in the books
and not us
other girls?

I sip the coffee
and light up
a cigarette
from a pack;
she takes one, too,
and looks at me.

It's a matter of posing.

Posing?

Yes, how they pose.

She frowns,
sips her coffee.

We can pose
like they do;
it's more than that.

I study her features,
the eyes focusing,
the lips part open,
her hair curly and tight.

It's the way
they look at you
from the photographs.

How do they look?

Haven't you seen
those kinds of books
or mags?

Why would I?

Curiosity?

Never looked.

I inhale cigarette smoke.

I saw my first girly mag
when I was at high school,
when a friend brought
one to school,
and I thought:
what the heck's that?

Don't you find
it belittles women?

Some I saw weren't
belittled any place.

I mean
as a ****** gender,
Dalya says,
grabbing me
with her eyes.

No, it's just dames
posing in the ****
or in skimpy gear
showing what God
gave them,
I say.

It cheapens women;
makes them objects
for men to pore over
with their eyes
and see as just that:
objects,
she says.

I drain my coffee
and put the cup down.

Another coffee?

No, I’ve not done
with this one.

I raise a hand
and a waitress comes
and I order
another coffee;
the waitress walks off,
her black dressed ***,
swaying.

What was it
you were saying?