Meeting Emma In The Toilets

at last, after four years
of howsitgoings; intro seminars
sat adjacent when we all
ignored the Hi speech before us,
panicking about what we would say;
spells of not knowing for certain
we'd even got the other's name right.

I go in, curse the red square
on each bog lock, stand Britishly,
hopping near-indiscernibly,
my bladder a fruit stone
pinballing about my gut.
The latch clicks,
my tiny punchbag of piss
sees its chance for freedom,
and I lurch towards the door
as she emerges in tears.

The gut "are you ok?"
does not receive "Yep, fine."
The exchange needs hemming
and I find myself doing so
by wrestler-gripping her,
my boobs squashed against the boobs
she'll later claim are smaller
than my guess. Less maternal,
more monkey-baby, I cling on
for fear I might have to say something
or something useful.

I realise I hadn't noticed
she'd been gone so long.