Miss Pinkie
opened the door
of her flat.

Ah, you brought
the whiskey, then,
good, now we can
really go to town,
she said.

I followed her
down the hall
into her lounge.

Take a seat,
I’ll get us
some glasses.

I sat down
on the white sofa.

The small lounge
was warm and cosy;
the few watercolour prints
were on the wall.

I thought the whiskey
would be a good idea,
I said.

Sure is,
she said,
coming into the lounge
with two glasses
and the whiskey bottle
under her arm.

She sat down
and poured us
two large drinks.

I sipped mine.

Shall I put on
some music?
She asked.

Sure, whatever.

She got up
and took out
an LP and put it
on her record player.

Mahler's first,
she said.

Ok,
I said.

She sat down again.

We sipped our drinks.

The music played.

Within ten minutes
she was all over me
like spilt spaghetti;
hands on my thighs,
legs, body, flies,
kisses on my cheek,
lips, neck
and still Mahler
played on regardless.

She paused
and sat back,
breathless.

I sat partially
undressed.

Not getting
any younger,
she said.

She wasn't;
she was already
nineteen years older
than I and looked it.

I think the bed
would be more
comfortable,
I suggested.

She nodded,
breathing hard.

She took me
by the hand
into her
darkened bedroom,
moonlight was in
at the window,
lighting up
part of the bed.

We lay down
next to each other.

I could hear her
breathing as she
finished *******.

I undressed, too.

I hope she doesn't
die on me here,
I thought.

What would I do?