FEMALE CLOWN 1972

A COUPLE IN CROATIA IN 1972 ON HOLIDAY

Are you some kind
of Schopenhauerian?
Abela asks,
peering over at me
as I read
a Schopenhauer book.

No, but I like
reading the guy,
I reply,
looking at her
over the book.

I want to go out,
she says,
see that string quartet
play at that hall;
they're playing
Bartók's string quartets.

Just this one paragraph
before we go,
I say.

She sighs loudly;
stomps around
our hotel room
like an elephant
with piles.

Ok, ok , I'm coming,
I say,
and put down the book
on the bedside cabinet.

She looks at me and says:
you haven't got to go,
I can always go alone.

I am ready,
I say,
and put on my jacket
and comb my hair.

She smiles and says:
if you're good
we can have
a good session tonight
and that foreplay I like.

I smile and watch
as she puts on
her small white coat.

She has a slim neat figure,
dark hair coming
over her shoulders,
and a nice a*s.

She picks up
a glass of white wine
she had begun
and finishes it off
in one swallow:
just to warm up,
she says.

I know her warming up:
the night before
she was so warmed up
she feel asleep
on our bed fully clothed
(except for her shoes
which she kicked off),
and I slept on the sofa,
listening out for her
in case she threw up,
but she didn't,
she just mumbled,
and once at some god knows
the early hour,
sang a Mozart aria,
until I said to hush it.

We leave the hotel room
and enter the elevator
and prepare to go down;
some Schmuck enters
with his wife
who is wearing
a black fur coat
and made up
with make-up
like some female clown.