Poetry Magazines - The best collection of poetry magazines online - Simon Armitage

The trees rustled encouragingly, as she hurried towards the familiar destination: another meeting at Spicer’s bar. She did not, absolutely did not, allow herself to imagine the figure waiting for her. She knew only too well that conjuring up a body to match the voice led inevitably to disappointment. Exchanged information, detailed discussions, soft, brown-bear voices on the phone inevitably metamorphosed into drab disillusionment in the poorly lit, half-empty establishment where she and her next companion finally came face to face.

How had she ever got into this, anyway? She had started off quite well, got exams, a degree in Languages, no less. And she couldn’t blame her family. Her parents, in particular, were wonderful; they had encapsulated her in a Dr. Seuss Cat In The Hat childhood, time-warp echoes of a childhood they wished they’d had. The emergence from this selfless and moral chrysalis to the indifference of the world beyond was a shock that had left her, for many years, slightly paranoid about her own chances and seriously terrified at those of her mother and father. In dreams she often saw them on a golden shore, two yards ahead of a picture-book wave when suddenly its white, lacy edges reached out demonically above the unaware couple. Her screams of warning were drowned out by the embracing deluge and as the water retreated not even a footprint memory remained. They had left her, alone forever.

The reality, however, was that both carried on their harmless, loving lives in a little village near the east coast. Her father, retired, was the leading man in all the village amateur dramatics. Her mother continued teaching in the school where she had worked for twenty years. They were safe. They knew nothing of her life now.

The rain had set in. Leaves were falling, gathering at the sides of the pavement, wet and pathetic, not the picture book variety of the American fall. How to explain then how she had reached this point? Perhaps it was the big love affair that had finished her off. Perhaps that was the place where Jenni, “doing so well” Matthews disappeared.

It was, she knew for certain, her soul’s graveyard, a quiet, end of a life place from which only shades of innocence danced a midnight masque, then, humbly, bowed their way off stage. Of course, she had believed at first, courtesy of parental cosseting. Surely he whom she adored, whose breath she swallowed amidst kisses, the more to become a part of him, surely he would take his place as dream-catcher for her life. It was in his bed she learned to be a woman, to take a man’s body and make it scream with pleasure. She was accomplished. That, at least, had given her currency.

She slipped, unnoticed, into the crowded pub; just enough time for a Jameson’s and a look in the mirror. In the Ladies, dodging between the lipsticking chatter, she surveyed the person before her: perfect. Out of the door, turn right, towards Spencer’s.

He was already there. As she made her way over to the corner table his eyes assessed the details of her body. Just another prick, but this was business and she smiled, ever the professional, as she took the seat alongside him.

“Happy Birthday, darling,” she crooned, softly, as she handed him the parcel.

“Is this what I think it is?” his eyes playfully questioned. He was good, very good.

“Don’t open it ‘till you get home, I want it to be a surprise.” She oozed affection. He leant over and kissed her neck. “Perhaps we could open it together over a bottle of wine?”

She returned his kiss, but fiercely on the lips, then moved around to whisper in his ear:

“Make a good job of this and you might get lucky.”

She watched him swagger towards the bar. Such hope, such innocence, such greed. Perfect, for this mission at least.