The Wrong Man.
That crepuscular night,
in his large purring car.
His hand nearing mine
The street floated by,
in the dark.
I unhappily ate
Pomme de gratin… coq o vin,.
at La Maison de Nuit
Lit by low orange lights.
He said ‘ I’m feeling on fire,’
Pushing my hair from my face.
He touched my sad cheek.
‘Je vous embrasse’.
Outside,
Rain lit by street lamps
struck the railings with force
I longed to take flight.. to be there.
In the wet of the night.
He turned the key in the latch
and his house opened up…
it was precious and grand and upright.
But his sofa was stiff,
His limp cushions, beige…
I hated that room at first sight.
“Have a seat…my dear girl
sit down and relax.
I’ll open some wine
and we’ll drink.”
No. No.I’m not well.
I really am ill.
Thank you for the night
and I fled.
The rain bit my flesh
as I hailed a black cab,
Like a fearful gazelle…
I leapt into the warmth
of its gleaming black shell.
I was gone… deep into the night.
Kristine Byrne. 11th March 2020 edited March 2021