It was surprising that after work, on Thursday,

she wanted to meet and share her bed with a man, again.

Maybe men, even, she thought, suddenly indecisive and guilty,

but for society, men, peers, their judgment, their pursed lips and nods of disapproval.

Now that she was almost home, her fireplace and Scotch seemed dearer, as usual;

the icy blanket of her acceptance of undesired celibacy wrapped itself around her.

 

The passage of two weeks had her wondering, intensely and recurrently, 

about the intertwined after-sweats of intercourse.

She allowed herself her skirts and the trousers that men adored,

yet, her skin wanted to sin more in the sunset-hours of nights.

In those two weeks, when she pined to make her morning coffees for two,

her bed for two increasingly seemed only partially satisfied to her too.

 

Last night, she dressed herself for a bar, in self-deceptive anticipation,

maybe looking at desirable men would suffice, as it sometimes had in youth.

Men in bars were as alien as passing flings now, but,

an alien was imaginably preferable than the unkind alienation.

Three Scotches, one cigarette, overwhelming music, sudden men, one unwelcome grasp, and

the quick, yet unsatisfied, return was inevitable. 

 

Today she was walking back home from work, passing by the regular windows,

and she looked at one of them as it whispered wryly, about her wrinkles.

In ten minutes, her life seemed answered, unwarrantedly,

by unsuccessful young romances, divorces, the past 55 years.

She remembered that Thursday clearly, and that society, offsprings, ex-husbands,

will walk her to her door before she embraces her lonely fireplace and Scotch again.