IN HER MIND.

A COUPLE ROW WHILE ON HOLIDAY IN 1972.

Abela sits
in the café
in the town square.

She's ordered coffee
from the waiter
with the dark moustache
who had given her
a smile
and his dark eyes
had explored her
as he moved away.

Benedict has a headache
and sleeps back
at the hotel.

They had had a row.

Words were said.

She recalls them
as she waits
for the coffee.

You were gawking at her?

I was merely looking.

You slavered
as she walked
by our table.

She wore
a strong perfume.

Benedict undressed.

Your eyes were out
like telescopes,
watching her
Yugoslavian butt.

You imagine things;
I was thinking
of her black
waitress dress.

Abela undressed.

You were thinking
of what was beneath
the black dress.

I wasn't,
you imagine
these things,
you're jealous.

He put on
his pyjamas.

Abela stood
in her underwear
staring at him.

Me?
Jealous of her?
That floozy.

She's not a floozy,
she's a waitress
at the hotel.

Benedict climbed
into bed.

Abela put on
her nightdress.

Your tongue
was hanging out
as she passed
the table;
she almost
fell over it.

You should be
a column writer
for a gossipy magazine.

You should admit
your guilt.

You should
open your eyes.

Abela got into bed,
pulled up the cover,
turned over
with her back to him.

No sex, then?

Not then or now.

She switched off
her side lamp
and he switched off
his side lamp.

Music played
from a bar nearby.

Voices laughed;
a girl screamed.

Abela's coffee comes,
brought by the waiter
with the dark moustache
and dark eyes.

His eyes seem
to undress her
as he walks away;
his black trousers
caressing
his fine behind.

She sips her coffee,
but he is there,
caressing her
in her mind.