He sits there waiting, wanting, withering, waif like waning, wondering
will she turn up… like an old school trouser hem?
or will she, like a rope tied around itself,… not?
Sweat irrigating his hands, irritating demands, of a sub-conscious mind switching his plans:
“she likes me, she hates, she’ll be here, she won’t;
and before he can cross the t of his last thought
she’s standing in front of him smiling
but what he can’t see is she is doing this for charity
healing a heart broken by too many let downs
she says a meal over an hour won’t be too much of my life
but no matter the outcome
she’s already decided to block all calls
after this first date.
and she likes his jokes; he likes everything about her
simply because she’s the only person to have turned up in his life
at a table set for two.
Then the main course…
and she’s thinking… “funny but lacks self confidence;
not a man that can take control”
And he’s thinking- “she smiles every time I speak
I have this in the bag”;
but he doesn’t know the bag is cultured with holes.
The waiter asks if they want dessert
she says no
he says no.
He takes out a ring and proposes
and she also proposes-
that he stuff it up his arse
because they haven’t even kissed yet
and he’s already asking for her soul…
She vomits up the starter and main course
all over his crisp pink shirt
and he thinks to himself:
“I thought white girls were supposed to be easier than Pakistani ones?
Dasein Petals © Copyright 2013