Too Far

After he had stormed off in his Volvo and got home to a torrent of texts, he responded with a fusillade of his own.  It was like a naval battle at close quarters, with no quarter given. Someone was going down.

He got in the last word. That was unusual, Perhaps he had gone too far. He need not have said some of the things he said. One particular insult was, in retrospect, very cutting.

He texted a partial rebuttal before he hit the sack. No response. He texted again. And again. Perhaps he had gone too far. Had she…? O God no. It didn’t bear thinking about.

He buried his head under the pillow and tried to sleep. Eventually he crashed. But the nightmares ….

He awoke at six in the morning. His mobile lit up. His arm flew across to grab it. It was from her. A volley of vitriol.

He had never felt so happy.

Happy

What I need is another day of the week.

Would that make people happy?

I could divide my time equitably then.

Or perhaps find my doppelganger

and if he has nothing going on in his life

could he stand in for me on occasions

or, better still, on a regular basis,

perks included, of course?

Or, failing that, what would you have me do?

Bifurcate?

Me & Mrs, Crasthorpe

I am going to bed with Mrs. Crasthorpe.

I have been to bed with her before.

It was a most pleasant experience.

Her husband is dead. She is a free woman now.

She is fit and feisty and when she’s breathed in the briny air of Eastbourne, she loosens up and tells me.

She has generously full lips. blonde hair and grey-blue eyes and is the ripe old age of 59.

Nothing unseemly passes between us, however.

Sadly she is an invention of William Trevor.

No More No-No’s !

No more flannelette shirts now it’s November.

No more slippers, dressing gowns, they’re old men’s clothes.

No more ‘Married At First Sight’ or ‘Farmer Wants a Wife’

Real men don’t watch those.

And when you pull up at a red light, no more picking ….

Please, please, I say, no more no-no’s!

Before You

Before you

I always laughed at cartoons

alone,

was astonished before paintings & poems

privately;

but now I pass the magazine to you,

the one with the crazy cartoons.

Look at this, I say, & you do and smiles

span our faces & rumble our bellies

like little laughing Buddhas;

Trouble shared is trouble halved,

my mother used to say — but Joy

works inversely:

It is doubled when shared with another.

*pic courtesy of Pinterest by John Currin

Tricky

Not ‘selfish’, she says. more ‘difficult to get on with’.

Ahhh, I say, that’s code for ‘tricky’.

I know I am. My best mate is too.

Human beans are ‘tricky’ all around.

They don’t grow straight. They grow with all sorts

of genetic quirks; there’s always something askew,

that rubs people up the wrong way, that chafes.

How people live together, I don’t know.

Sometimes I have trouble just living with me.

I’m not a one trick pony, but I am tricky.

pic courtesy of Pinterest

Bad Company

How’s your girlfriend going? she asks tonelessly..

Pam? Yeh, she’s okay, I say.

You seem to need somebody, she says. A wife, partner, a female friend.

And you don’t?

No. I must be stronger, she conjectures in her haughty voice. I can live with myself. I don’t need anyone.

Loneliness is a morose companion, I add.

She says nothing.

pic by Joey Monsoon courtesy of Pinterest