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by fyn
Rated: E · Poetry · Experience · #2123804
Just a stranger at the pub in a small town.
Silver-misted hair twisted in
a desperately elegant chignon,
peacock eyes a shade too bright--
just shy of tears,
lips a slash of angry red
upon a face porcelain pale:
she sits alone faking
being busy, appearing as in a bubble
in the overly crowded bar.
Her eyes dart to the sides
but she doesn't move her head
scoping out who might be nearby.
Easily fifty in a world of twenty-somethings
all hunting, on the prowl,
looking for the unattainable.

Her drink, occasionally sipped, gone warm.
The ice melted an hour ago: scotch
diluted to pale amber. Crossing legs
inch her widow-black skirt mid thigh,
three-inch scarlet heel dangling carelessly.
Tapping lethal nails in time to country beat
she watches
as my husband and I two-step
'round the bar --between tables,
switching it up
as people make room, watch and sing along.
Frown lines pucker, crack her fa├žade.
Body vibrates desire to dance, to talk,
to someone -- anyone rather than
sit there alone at a table for four.

She nods, pouting, as two chairs are snagged,
crowded to our table as friends join us.
An aura of disinterested boredom radiates
until an older gentleman in western gear
asks her to dance.
She demurs, then acquiesces.
She's really good as he twirls her,
spins her back. A smile softens features,
eyes brighten, flash.
He joins her, drink replaced.
She is animated now,
flirty, provocative;
shooting smoldering looks
to the man who drinks them in with his beer.

Another set of drinks in answer to last call.
One last song, slow, sinuous dance.
We follow them out as the lingerers
are swept out with the floors.
They kiss by her ancient Monte Carlo: she
follows his pick-up out of the parking lot.
Still following him as we wend our way home,
see them both pull in to a driveway
three blocks from home.
We remember him then, he lost his wife
a few years back.

Morning walk, dog nosing along.
Car is still there.
They are at the dive diner
we favor for weekend breakfast.
In borrowed baggy jeans,
face alive, make-up free, she links fingers
with him over coffee
smiles clear to her eyes.
They laugh at a shared joke,
leave hand in hand. Almost, almost
she is a different person.

It's been a few months now. We see her there.
On her knees,
weeding his wife's prized garden. Flower
baskets line now the porch.
His lawn looks greener.
I expect it is.

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