Bedsheets

The daffodils in her hand suggest guilt
the high heels and short skirt prompt the old ladies she passes
to say a prayer for her.
She watches them go into the church
while she breakfasts at a petrol station,
the petrol fumes are diluted
by the Christian Dior under her necklace.

She pays for the chicken sandwiches with the money
not needed at last night's cocktail bar.
She had not had to pay for a single drink herself.
She could not remember who had paid for the taxi
but guesses it was him.

She pretended not to notice him
hide pornographic magazines under the nest of tables.
She tried to ignore the mouldy coffee cups
on the window ledge.
The smell of bedsheets
badly in need of washing
made her want to soak in bubble bath for an hour
alone.
"I should not have done this"
she said to herself
and left while he slept.
She took the stairs instead of the lift
as though there were a fire.

She wipes the mayonnaise from her chin
and as the church fills
she walks down the gravel pathway
and arranges the daffodils
on a headstone.