For One Night Only

In light of the bedside lamp, Kelly lies propped on one elbow watching the man as he sleeps. Deflated, mouth half open, she thinks that the hairs on his chest should make the noise of footfalls on frosted grass as they press against the duvet.

In the morning, she will throw conversation in his face like a handful of glittering marbles. Confused, he will know the woman he looked down upon as she kneaded his balls and licked his glans is gone.

As Kelly gives him tea in a china cup, brewed from the pot, he will notice books and newspapers, and art on the walls.

She will smile as she lays the outfit of last night over the back of a chair, the dress that shone so slick now empty, knickers a pile of string.

Clumsy, assembling words like wooden blocks, he will talk about work, or how drunk he was, his voice slow and too loud. She will listen politely, smoking a cigarette.

As she opens letters with handwritten addresses, tipping out magazines and manuscripts, he will ask her what she does.

“I’m a writer,” she will say.

Uncomfortable, he will soon leave.

It is always like that.