The Great Love

They met at a gallery. Again, in a garden open to the public,
eventually at a private party given by an accountant.
They spoke with words, with eyes, with hands, with lips.
A pact was sealed, they made love on top of a goosedown duvet,
they slept beneath it.

He took her to theatres, to the ballet,
and once to Glyndebourne.
They dined in Thai and Japanese restaurants,
she never got used to the Sushi.
He bought her oils and perfumes and silken bras and knickers,
she wore them while they talked late into the night
about the meaning of life and their great love.

They shopped at Sainsburys and touched beside the sundried tomatoes.
They exchanged sensual looks in front of the extra virgin olive oil.
With averted eyes they hurried past bathroom cleaners and oven pads
pausing again to touch hands by the packets of frozen Tiger Prawns.

They argued about the washing up,
she said they should buy a dishwasher.
He said did she think he was made of money?
She said he was always flashing it around.
He made noises about the recession and possible redundancy,
she told him not to be such a bore and went out
to spend four hundred pounds on clothes.
They had their first major row.

He took up golf again which she found boring,
she didn’t hesitate to say so frequently while
heating a ready meal in the microwave when she got home late.
They sat before programmes on television without discrimination.
There were no more late night conversations.
They lay apart beneath the goosedown duvet.

One morning she packed her bags and left,
leaving a note which said nothing about their great love.


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