Eating in

I'm dressed up and going out in the rain to the food places and I'll
be thinking of you as i walk, wondering which room you're in right now
and if you're reading my mail and private stuff. I'll be thinking of
you frowning at the stain on the carpet and automatically putting a
clean plate on top of the dirty ones from the last meal, covering over
the leftovers. It would never of course occur to you to wash up ; you
prefer to point out that the sink is a greasy mess. Maybe even that it
stinks.

You. Used to eating in posh restaurants with posh people , always
having food slid on big white plates in front of you. No qualms about
complaining. If a hovering waiter says "was the food to your liking
sir?" he'll get a proper answer which will come out quickly knock him
into a panic.

"the food .............. was absolute shit...... lukewarm ......
indigestible . Overpriced Shit"

I long for fine food. Food that i didn't buy and cook. I long for
lukewarm indigestible and overpriced shit to be placed poncily in front
of me between an overwhelming array of heavy cutlery. I long for a
frock which is stunning and at the same time almost scruffy, no not
scruffy, nonchalant , that I don't have to de-cling the bum of when i
stand up to go to the loo. I long to be dining in an unnoticeable
temperature and guessing where the perfume is transporting me to, and
then realising with a thrill it's the perfume I'm wearing. I want to
watch people developing sinus problems over my perfume and being too
polite to mention it.

Instead i am deciding whether to get take-away cod and chips or pizza.
Because when you come here, you are so bored with all the posh stuff
that you just want to relax and rough it. Chill out and wind down. You
even drift off into a reverie at the thought of mushy peas. You keep
slippers here in the spare room and some awful airline pajamas ready
for the exciting evening ahead, watching videos and eating chocolate.
Mars Bars, Snickers, Munchies. Not even those Belgian shell chocolates.
You'll put on a men's spy video which washes over me and i'll want to
read a book, but you'll have the light turned down low to "make it
cosy" When you smile in the stuffy dark i can hear your lips parting
and the sound of saliva. A happiness which I am trapped in gasping for
tomorrow, early morning light and sharp air.

So I'll watch the video where women are only in the crowd scenes, not
understanding the plot. And I'll play with silly words in my head, hear
high heels scraping past and car doors slamming out in the street. It's
Saturday night for god's sake. I could sneak out to a party when you
hit the sack at 11.20 but I'll be too anaesthetised by then.