Herstory

"Tell me about Davina," says Carly.
I sit five minutes lke a corpse.
She asks again. "You can tell me.
It's OK." Her voice is a scarf.
I begin. "She's blonde. Wait - sometimes
red." Carly tilts her amazing head;
her cheekbones, satin eyelids, uninterrupted
softness and sculpture
dizzy me. "A little like you
in the face." A nod.
"I never told anyone."
My voice is a shadow. "I was so
careful. Every time." I tell her
my wife has no idea. Unless
she too is a wily testudo.
Blood blooms in my cheeks.
I think of my patients, of
the old dears who dote on me
and hang on to my breath; who
giggle when I hold the door.

Carly lifts my Errol Flynn chin
from repose on my hands.
"What kind of girl is she?
A businesswoman? A cheerleader?"
"A slut."

"Excellent. I have the perfect shade."
She dots a bindi of lipstick on my hand -
"Perfect" - then lathers me
for a shave.
I close my eyes, try to calm
the bailiff's knock of my heart
and let her drown me.