Sunday, 17 April 2011


A black dress, strident red stripes; shed quickly, willingly. Almost torn off; it lies in a crumpled heap on the floor; discarded, unwanted.

Previously so sophisticated, demure, almost cold; you never knew what she's thinking. Then wild, passionate; it takes you by surprise. So unexpected, so welcome, you might even get to know her.

The black dress is returned to its former function. The crumples straightened out; almost, but not quite, a few linger; you would not see then unless you were looking, not unless you knew. So carefully, so correctly, she redoes her make-up; meticulous detail is applied to every brush stroke, every manicured tone. Now she does not want to be touched; brushes you aside; an unwanted guest, or worse, an intruder. The sophistication becomes cold again. The haughtiness returns; can you go on living like this?

You're pleased with yourself; almost smug. But deep down, somewhere you don't quite want to admit, those mood swings worry you. Can there be a future? And what happened to cause them? She will not tell you; is offended if you even ask.

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