A Real Poet

He said he was a poet and I believed him, fool that I am. All that talk about the gentle coiling of hair around hair was just talk. Just words made up.

But that’s what poetry is, Dave said to me when I was crying on his sofa bed. It’s just words made up, there isn’t any magic to it. He patted my head and filled my glass.
He was good to me then, Dave. He didn’t remind me that he’d warned me off Sebastian.

Bloody fancy name, he’d said. What’s wrong with Dave, or George? Why does everyone have to be so bloody exotic these days?
Bastian didn’t choose it, I told him, when I still believed Sebastian was a poet. Ask his parents, it’s their fault.

Sebastian used to talk to me about his parents.
Both estranged, he said. Didn’t approve of the way he’d lived his life.
He even had a little cry then and I thought, Oh yes, a poet this one. A real poet.
I'd tell Dave how noble Sebastian was, how he’d gone against everything his parents believed in and Dave would just nod his head.

Then I saw them in the supermarket. Looking just like any old family doing the weekly shop. Two kids pushed a trolley in front of Sebastian, who stood reading the back of a multi pack of Wotsits.
A handsome woman with dark hair rested her hand flat on the small of his back, checking her phone. Behind them an old man walked precisely, placing each foot down exactly so as not to go off course.
I recognised that walk.
I hoped this wasn’t what it looked like.

All of the most talented poets were gay, Sebastian used to say to me, as if I was the one who needed reassurance, and I’d nod my head tenderly as he pulled his mouth across my stomach.

I remember his voice in the supermarket. Unflinching, polite.
George, this is my Dad. Dad, this is George.
And I shook that strong hand as if I wasn’t overwhelmed.

The only time I see him now is in the supermarket. He’ll be turning a red onion around in his hand or holding a lemon up to the light.
Hello George! he’ll say as if he doesn’t know what my groin smells like and I’ll say hello back just the same.
Then Sandra will look at us both with her tight, chin-heavy smile, and I’ll wonder how much she knows, what she’s just guessed at.
Don’t let me forget the Dairylea, she’ll say to him, and I’ll remember their life together, their children, their bed.
Then I’ll say goodbye too loudly, trying to remember that she's the victim here, not me.

At home Dave will be waiting, trustworthy and calm. I’ll hand him the bottle of wine I bought, pretend I'm not thinking about Bastian.

And when he kisses me like he’s lucky to have me I kiss him straight back.