After Dinner
After dinner.
I'm spent.
Wanting a cigarette.
They've all packed up.
I'm wasted away on the bed.
Thinking of sneaking a smoke.
It's been at least nine years since I smoked one.
Gaps of time and cocktails.
Babies and an affair with the neighbor's husband.
All evening it transpired.
The looks of love across the room.
A man that appears to be the same one I married.
I love him.
Two beautiful children.
I'm so ashamed but I love him.
I don't know if it's love or boredom.
The thing that makes me want another.
My brain circles in wonder as Rich sends the neighbors away.
I think of his spare smokes in the back of the nightstand.
Cheap. quick. resolution.
A long cool drag.
He's still downstairs.
Lost on the past.
It's intersecting my future.
We're going to Paris.
Always what I want.
It's grown old.
Boring.
Like him always agreeing.
I think him screwing his secretary might be exciting.
I love him but it's routine.
I'd like him to come upstairs
And catch me.
Smoking.
Yell.
Get excited.
Turn him on with a switch.
Set his passion on fire.
Forget the kids
Grab me.
Kiss me.
Tell me how much I remind him of the bad girl who made him quit smoking.
Let my mind wander.
Take in the smell of his shirts.
I want to tell him how the other touches me.
I want him to touch me that way.
Lonely housewife and she's hungry for her husband.
But here, he won't.
Won't climb those stairs passionately.
Won't hold me.
Won't touch me.
He'll kiss my forehead.
Tell me how great I was.
Such a wonderful wife.
Disregard the smoke and new garters.
He's Spent.
House a mess.
Tell me to take myself a rest.
After Dinner.
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