Black Was Her

He’d never really,

turned her on; unlike

others before him.

 

Rather, it was more

a familiar, everyday

kind of affair; the way

she felt about her well worn,

all forgiving,

sheepskin slippers

she wouldn’t trade

in a month of Sundays.

 

Albeit, nothing like

the fiery passion

she felt for her lustrous,

black, patent leather

designer, six-inch stilettos.

Uplifting, and yet

uncomfortable as sin.

 

Wear them until you tilt,

babe!  he’d quipped

on more than one occasion.

 

Strangely enough, though,

he’d seemed an ordered

kind of man; a dab hand

at gardening. What he

didn’t know about the sexing

of plants wasn’t worth  the knowing...

not to mention his prowess

at developing a cross

hybrid marrow –

come cucumber...

 

and his way with cleaning

her car till it shone, and

he always paid their bills

on time.  Far worse things in  life,

than being married to him.

 

And, then, of course,

there was always – her bit

on the side.  Ah, the blessings

of a personal trainer, when

he was away on one of his

all too frequent business trips

 to far-flung climes.

 

Strange then, how her grief

on his passing, was so palpable,

so intense, so intimate,

she’d  dreamt she was astride him.

 

Sweat glistened between

her thighs, her breasts...sheets

still damp, aromatic from her dream,

sent her rifling through his clothes...

his wardrobe, and more.

 

Then she found just the thing;

a favourite shirt of his. It smelt

of Old Spice and 1965. Fancied

she heard her name slip off

his tongue, in its customary

lacklustre tenor. Black lace

she wore that night.

 

How her being ached

in exquisite agony, and,

for the first time,

she cried.