Clichés

 

Naked

She lay on the ivory carpet,

Stretched out,

Her head propped on one arm.

Deliberately

She circled the crystal rim

With her finger tip,

And dipped her tongue

Into the ruby wine,

Smiling mischievously

At the man seated on the sofa.

The red liquid glowed

In the single lamplight;

Her thighs gleamed golden

On the creamy rug.

‘You look so right there,’ he said,

‘As if you couldn’t be anywhere else.’

The half-whispered cliché

 So matched the moment

That her fingers fumbled on

The thin stem of the glass

And the crimson wine tipped over

Spreading like blood

On the spotless carpet.

 

‘Oh, Christ!’ he yelped,

Diving for tissues and grabbing

A bottle of tonic off the sideboard.

Together they mopped frantically,

Squelching the carbonated ale

Into the deep red stain

Until – finally -

The mark was just faintly pink.

‘I am so sorry,’

She managed at last to gasp.

‘That was so clumsy of me.

Will you need to bring in a

Professional cleaner?’

‘No, no, it will be fine.’

He pitched the papers into the bin

And sat again on the couch.

She dressed herself quickly,

Avoiding the big spot on the floor:

It was wet.

They shrugged and laughed,

A conscious silly sound.

And yet, the previous moment

Did not become comedic.

It existed separately as a truth

That could not be diminished.

 

Cynthia Buell Thomas