She sat stiff and straight
Swilling her ruby wine in a delicately
Manicured hand. Her hair fell
Over her shoulders like flames and
She was as pale as the pearls
That dressed her neck.
In a crowd of ageing business men
She laughed in all the right places
Although she didn’t find it funny.
She was his trophy, for show
And nothing more.
Then through the partially frosted window
Of the restaurant she saw him,
A grey hooded jacket protecting him
Against the winter wind
As he stood at the bus stop
On the corner of the street.
She smiled at him in her sadness
And he raised a hand in return.
He was on the other side of the glass.
But still he seemed so close as if all
She had to do was reach out a shaking hand.
For a second she thought he might
Save her. Then the 662 arrived
And he disappeared behind
The sliding doors. But he rushed to
A window and breathed out all he wanted
To say on the glass and with a finger
Carved a heart.
She felt her husband’s blubbery fingertips
On her arm. The caviar had arrived.