Dating the Milky Bar Kid

I say "dating"; really
the affair lasted three
trips round the city
in his Audi. 'My Mum was shrewd.
She invested all my earnings.'

I say "kid". Of course,
he was 32 and counting by this point,
though he still had the creamy cheeks
that had matched on TV
the white chocolate chunks
bulging from them,
as his play-cowboy tassels shimmyed
and his freckles bobbed.

It was going great. We'd been
to the drive-through -
the third date - and I asked
could we stop off for snacks
at some petrol station?

Sure.

At the store, I picked over
the nightclub of chocolate,
each shiny-wrapped specimen
vying for my pound. I dug out
a Milkybar, waggled it playfully,
and looked around
to find him cradling his head.

'I always hated them.
I'd get through
thirty half-bars
for every take.

Did you know
they kept a bucket
just off camera? I'd smile,
say the tagline, bite
a hearty slab off, then at 'CUT!'
I'd throw up
like a seasick tourist.
That pail, the crew
got my name - well,
The Kid, penned onto it.
Christ, I HATED that sweet!'

He drove me home, but refused
to kiss goodnight. Apparently,
the taste was still on me.

It was short, our spell
together, yes, and it ended oddly,
but in his defence, he was generous.
The drinks, like the bars before them,
and maybe the jokes
were always on him.