The Wine

The Wine

She walks into the kitchen, carrying empty mugs and laughing over her shoulder at some joke or other he’s just told. She heads straight for the kettle, behaving as if I don’t even exist. But I know she’s seen me. I know she knows I’m here. And she can pretend to make the tea for as long as she fancies, but both she and I know what we’ve got, what we’ve had, what, what...whatever. I’ll wait. I can wait. Because I know I’m on her mind. In fact, I’m sure she’s already looked over a couple of times. And, sure enough, she’s suddenly in front of me - pulling me to her lips. Then, then, then… 

The fucking kettle’s boiled. 

She pushes me away, turns and, wiping her lips, walks off. That goon is now yelling something from next door. ‘Hurry up’ or, actually… well, who cares? She giggles, though he’s really not said anything remotely funny. ‘Coming’ she answers, making a racket to show she’s just finishing up. She looks at me once more, then lights a cigarette to mask the taste, and leaves. 

HER: I’m not sure about that wine..