THIS LOVE

The acrid smell of smoke wakes me at dawn.  The bed is on fire again.  How irritating.  I twist and leap out the side of the bed, staggering across the room for the fire extinguisher.  In so doing I trip over a bag which has been strategically placed between bed and far wall.  I just manage to keep my footing.  Good thing too, I would have fallen on the knife block which has somehow found its way from kitchen to bedroom.  The orange flames reveal that the knives have been reversed, so they are wedged blade upwards.  Funny that.

Naturally the fire extinguisher is missing.  Unphased, I grab the one I hid in my wardrobe and choking on the black smoke which is starting to fill the room, I extinguish the blaze with ruthless efficiency.

You rise from the easy chair where you have been sitting watching me and pull the curtains open letting in the soft light of the rising sun.
"That's another mattress ruined," I complain cheerfully and reach for the glass of water by the bed.  I raise it to you in a toast; "better luck next time!"  I take a long grateful drink.  I only realise my mistake when I see your lips curl into a beatific smile.

A WINTER'S PARTY

I met you at some random party.  It was so warm inside, loads of people, all crushed up together.  Alcohol, food and talk, talk, talk, much of it boring.  I guess if you go to enough of these doos you hear the same conversations over and over again and they all morph into one.  Money, mortgages, property prices; the things that stick us to our commitments until we’re paralysed.

I was happy enough until you touched me.  I can’t remember when or how, but I looked into your face and that was it.  I saw amongst that talk of work and wealth, the freedom of winter - you changed the season in my soul.

“Come and play in the snow,” you said or maybe I did.

We left the warmth of the house and crossed the road, just the two of us.  The black ice made the going treacherous; I had to hold onto your arm.  The Church was opposite us, you kissed me under the lych gate.  I glanced back at the house, afraid my husband had come out to look for me, but he was still inside, no doubt he was engrossed in discussing his pension plan.

The cold was bitter, it was snowing in the graveyard, the flakes made a shroud that concealed us as we made love on a tombstone.  I was scared to look at the name on it, in case it was mine.