All Done With Mirrors
A rainy August evening.
She takes a cab to Santaniello’s.
It’s nice inside. Slips off her coat,
shakes her brolly, makes
a b-line for ‘their’ table.
Discretely winks at the waiter.
He smiles. Says, “Hello.”
Brings her a menu, although
she knows he knows
she’ll have her usual.
Colin’s late again,
for the third time this week.
Runs her fingers through her hair –
stirs her coffee. Takes her spoon,
traces patterns on the cloth.
Looks at the clock –
checks her watch.
She’s dying for a fag.
Just as well she’d given up.
They’d been meeting here for ages
since they’d got engaged
some two years down the line.
Not ready yet to settle down.
“Soon,” he’d said,
which she respected. He was,
always would be, his own man.
An hour or more goes by.
She takes a compact from her bag,
leisurely powders her nose.
Pays for the cappuccinos,
is putting on her coat
when Colin walks in,
the back way.
“Fuck you!” she tells him.
He’s taken aback. Says he’s sorry
he’s late, but something came up –
a pressing commitment.
“I know,” she says. “I watched you
kiss her goodbye – hands squeezing thighs.
Shall I … expand on that? Except,
don’t waste your breath. You see
it’s all done with mirrors. I saw everything …
And on reflection, much more besides.