Future Dating

Sat along rotating pine benches
wearing scrolling badges that display:
name; favourite thing; emotional state,
I am Joe; money; anxious
as Karen; knitting; distracted
pulls up opposite, chopsticks
clicking as though making a scarf
from her udon noodles;
our three minutes pass in excruciating
knit one purl one chit chat.
She sucks up her durum tongue
then it’s Mariella; hairspray; indifferent:
her shadow arrives first, then the mist
of plastic dust that holds her turret
upright: a sheer, frozen wave
that breaks upon her brow.
We chat about beaches but
I sense her eyeing my hair line.
She draws a frowning emoticon
in the air, before swishing away
then it’s George; paint; superior
who says that she likes my retro avatar
and it turns out we both still use Mozilla
“Keepin’ it old skool!”
– High five –
“LOL!”
and I find out she can whistle
the theme tune from Zelda
then our three minutes are gone
and I’m thumping green
as Sylvia; guns; impatient
appears: shotgun eyes,
fingers twitching, white gunk
at the corners of her mouth.
I feel her feet under the table,
nestling my crotch, Neolithic
toenails, fragrance of murderer’s glove
and I’m pressing red and red
as Porcia; old buildings; extraordinary
swivels into view with art deco
cheekbones, sky-rise posture.
She speaks in intricate structures
with witty stucco asides:
she is either marriage material
or a one-off demolition-fuck
in a room full of Lego.
I give her green as she dioramas
into Kate; imperfections; unclear
whose hair is half-translucent.
I complement her body, her lips,
the Persil of her eyes
but she says she can take no credit
and that she’s sorry but her battery
is about to die
and then she’s screaming,
but quietly, as she starts to fizz
like an unearthed plug.