Abela wants to sit
and sun herself
on the beach;
I prefer the cafes

in the old city,
a book, a smoke
and a cool drink.
Others sit or lay

in the hot sun,
she says,
why not you?
You go,

I'll meet you later
in the city,
have a drink and meal
in some restaurant.

I hate being on my own.
You're not be
on your own;
there are hundreds

of other sun worshipper
there, too,
all around you.
She pulls a face,

sulks,
wanders down
to the crowded beach
with her towel

and skimpy
two-piece.
Don't blame me
if I get picked up

by some gorgeous guy,
she says,
back at me.
I watch her go,

the figure advertising
her Venus sisterhood.
I wave
and set off

for the city.
Some poor schmuck
will try his luck;
he'll not succeed;

pity.