Who Knows.

Brad is downstairs.
He has turned on
the radio. You sit
there on the bedroom

floor wearing the black
slip he bought you a
while back. You were
going to leave him,

but have run out of steam.
You put out your feet,
still with the red stilettos on.
Will he come up or think

you are out? You hope
he doesn't. Hard to explain.
Your dark hair needs
brushing. Mother used

to brush it when you were
a girl. A hundred strokes
she would say. You still
remember her doing it

with you between her legs
as she brushed. That smell
about her. Her plump thighs.
Dead now, cancer. He moves

about downstairs. You hope
he doesn't. You could have
been gone by now. Too fussy
about what to take what to

leave behind. Your bottom
feels stiff sitting there on that
hard floor. What if he does come?
What will you say? You close

your eyes. Try to push sounds away.
Almost made it. Bed last night.
Him wanting it and you not, but
you did it nonetheless. You know

he's slept with her. That bitch at
his office. Tight arse. Large eyes,
lips seductive. The radio stops.
The door shuts. Your red shoes

kiss together at the toes. Will
you go? Who knows. Who knows.

by Terry Collett

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