Dinner for Two

We climbed the stairs clutching our cans of lager and freshly
cooked chips, the heat from the chips mixing with the heavy evening air.
I could feel the grease from the wrapping soaking into my skin as I tried
not to notice the sweat patches spreading across your summer, blue shirt.

Your room stifled, even after you had opened the windows the smell of
 bodies warm, caressing the silence of our eating.

I watched as you drank straight from the can, in one long slow movement.
We ate  from the paper
the salt and vinegar mixing with the sweat on my lips.
I had never been in alone in a man’s bedroom before –
good girls know not to – a line that had been drummed into my head
becoming a mantra
to live ones single life by, from a mother who was to be feared.

You threw your empty can across the room missing the cardboard box that seemed
to be serving as a bin.
I finished eating getting up to wash my hands lost in the confusion of thinking and doubts.

I thought I heard you say something ‘pardon’, I said.

“You owe me three quid for your half of the food and drink, no charge for the company”!

I somehow managed a weak smile -  
it would seem that tonight my mother’s words had served me well –
so I paid my bill

before swiftly closing the door behind me.
Deep down I knew, that a good girl always knows how to behave...

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