Swell Time

Strayman’s. Table for two.
Saturday night. The buzz rises and falls.

I sip my martini. Dry.
He talks. I smile.

Couple next to us is in love.
She laughs at everything he does.

I study the olive in his glass.
It’s all I can think about.

I wait for a pause that never comes.

I can’t interrupt. Not polite.
He doesn’t leave space.

He wants to take me home. Hails a taxi.

In the back seat: Swell time?
I nod.

He’s handsy. A little drunk.

I have the olive. Cupped in my hand.
Waiting.

He walks me to the door.
I invite him in.

Momma’s waiting. She likes company.
She pours. He drinks.

Vermouth and sweat.
Momma approves.

I watch.
Hoping he’ll fall off the chair.
Disappointment.

Momma gives me a kiss.
Heads up to bed.

He needs to go to the john.
I point. Just past the kitchen.

I’ll be upstairs.
First door on the left.

I hear him stumble up the stairs.
Door opens, then closes.

I eat the olive.
Salty. Bitter. Delightful.

I turn off the light. Wait.

The bed creaks.
Old springs singing a new song.

I sigh.

He makes odd little noises.
Grunts in an off-beat cadence.

The whole house shudders when he’s done.

I roll over, savoring the salty taste in my mouth.

---

I’m up early. It’s quiet for a while.

I hear scuffling upstairs.
A door slams.

Hurried feet and heavy breaths.

He stops at the landing. Looking at me.
Face gaping like a fish on dry land—
pants and shoes clutched like pearls.

I smile. Swell time?

He looks for the exit.
I point left.

He scrambles.
The door closes behind him.

I pour more tea.

Momma owes me one.