The Door

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One glass of heady wine.

High enough to giggle

but not enough to sway me

working my way through the

corridor as you led me to my room

the perfect gentleman in

a navy blue pullover and an

earnest handkerchief

to retire for the night

after the day’s trite meetings

You were married, I was engaged

or was it you engaged and I married ?

Such a blur of banalities.

We were neither to each other anyway.

Every fibre within me wanting

you undressing I lay in bed throwing off

covers too hot despite the January snow

outside I remember leaving the door

ajar. Just a polite little bit.

Invitation.Plea.Seduction.

I lay awake for hours or minutes

but you never came

I wondered if you had left your door open and

were waiting within your own

cage of exquisite torture

Was it a game? Did we lose?

In the morning you laughed

over black coffee and pain au chocolate

telling me that I had forgotten to latch my door

and studying my face intently while pretending

to be amused reading

my intentions and finding

belittling indifference. I sneered

inwardly at your cowardice.

Early the next morning we shared

a taxi to the airport. As the doors slammed shut

we each sat silent in our seats pretending to be

groggy as the radio mocked us with

Goodbye my lover.