Storm

Fumes part as her body cuts air currents, stares, conversations.
He sat in a small room waiting for the letters to arrive.
Twelve scratches. Wet sheets. The stomp.
Change of address.
Syncopated. Cyanide.
Simple sunset sweetness sugar.
And, for pudding, a note. From him, to her.
‘My Darling,
I can’t. Yes I see you everywhere and even on the television and yes, radio and, yes, even the newspapers and this, that and the other. But, darling…darling. When can we meet again? What, did you say, was your name?
‘Do you know the bandstand in Chinatown? 6 p.m.? I’ll be wearing tan brogues.’

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