Fish Fingers
A small candle on the table
washes her blue eyes violet
as she twirls the long stemmed yellow rose
that matches her dress.
I hand-feed her tidbits
from the shared bouillabaisse
fish crab mussels
she sucks the saffron-coloured juice
slowly
from my fingers
and licks my palm
never mentions her husband once.
We do it outside in the restaurant car park
standing in shadows
up against an old frangipani
urgent and quick
her arms around my neck
strappy shoes dangling from one hand
creamy blossoms float down
around us like perfumed snow.
She leaves her knickers in her handbag
when I drive her home.
In her driveway is an old orange BMW
with an indistinct figure inside.
‘Shit!’ I whisper. ‘Is that your old man?’
‘No.’ She kisses the tip of one finger
and places it delicately on my lips.
‘No, it’s just my other lover.’
* John Irvine is a regular IS&T contributor – and this may be based on a true story.
