The Right One

The coffee is too hot but I sip it anyway. I shouldn't be here. Your flat is neat, pristine.

“It makes sense though, doesn't it?” you say, still naked. Still smelling of me. “If they don't like it they should leave.”

I am naked too. I feel you look at my body as I carry my mug to the window. The towers of Canary Wharf glint across the Thames.

I am afraid to turn around to see you, teeth bared. “It makes me fucking sick. If they hate it here so much they should go back.”

I sip the coffee, still too hot. I misunderstood you in the pub, when I said I was sad about the soldier, dead in front of his barracks, about the trouble it would cause. The air crackled with it. I thought you were on my side.

You stand and kiss my neck. I cannot look you in the eye. On top of me you push out my muslim friends, my gay sister, my beliefs and ideas.

You speak and I do not correct you.

My skin blinds you to the difference between us.

I did not guess how hard you were.