Abela sits
in the café
in the town square.

She's ordered coffee
from the waiter
with the dark moustache
who had given her
a smile
and his dark eyes
had explored her
as he moved away.

Benedict has a headache
and sleeps back
at the hotel.

They had had a row.

Words were said.

She recalls them
as she waits
for the coffee.

You were gawking at her?

I was merely looking.

You slavered
as she walked
by our table.

She wore
a strong perfume.

Benedict undressed.

Your eyes were out
like telescopes,
watching her
Yugoslavian ****.

You imagine things;
I was thinking
of her black
waitress dress.

Abela undressed.

You were thinking
of what was beneath
the black dress.

I wasn't,
you imagine
these things,
you're jealous.

He put on
his pyjamas.

Abela stood
in her underwear
staring at him.

Me?
Jealous of her?
That ******.

She's not a ******,
she's a waitress
at the hotel.

Benedict climbed
into bed.

Abela put on
her nightdress.

Your tongue
was hanging out
as she passed
the table;
she almost
fell over it.

You should be
a column writer
for a gossipy magazine.

You should admit
your guilt.

You should
open your eyes.

Abela got into bed,
pulled up the cover,
turned over
with her back to him.

No ***, then?

Not then or now.

She switched off
her side lamp
and he switched off
his side lamp.

Music played
from a bar nearby.

Voices laughed;
a girl screamed.

Abela's coffee comes,
brought by the waiter
with the dark moustache
and dark eyes.

His eyes seem
to undress her
as he walks away;
his black trousers
caressing
his fine behind.

She sips her coffee,
but he is there,
caressing her
in her mind.