We drive over in my Mercedes sports
and ... as she would have it..
park, loudly, directly in front of the door.
Here we are. Watch us closely.
Two peacocks proudly strutting
and ... as she wished...
my colours more spectacular
and my dance more absolutely perfect.
Envious heads turn. I need this too.
My worry is that she may be too badly scarred
to ever want to heal.
"Does he know about me?"
I ask, again.
"Only of your fame," she smiles.
This surprises me, of her,
apparently less impressed, by such, than most.
To the bar now, watch us still,
we must hold the floor.
Reveal a satisfied fold of notes
from my Gucci wallet,
and set us up with doubles.
(Champagne on ice would be too crass).
Not too loud, but just enough
to alert the crowd, and more crucially him,
to our privileged status.
Draw his friends and smoothly alienate him.
"Will it be enough?"
She just wants to see him squirm.
She needs him to know that she has
'come off best' and I am only
too happy to indulge and please her.
I imagine him nondescript.
I read him as pathetic.
Is he worthy of such a show?
She thought so, but now doubts it.
The fanfare finally at an end.
She's so obviously exhausted.
"Did it work?" I want to know.
(She refuses to point him out).
"He isn't here," she replies,
"but it's enough that he might have been."
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