A Quiet Weekend in the ’Hood

You phone me Friday

and ask if I’d like

to get together.

As fine as Thursday was,

I cannot do it.

It has been only eight weeks

since my girlfriend

went down the road,

I’m leery of so soon

an involvement

and try to structure

things accordingly.

Or maybe I pass

because I’m burned out

but not aware of it.

Perhaps I can’t handle

a second night of ecstasy

and must beg off,

if only to sip beer

at my neighbourhood local.

I’m exhausted, I say,

why don’t you come over

tomorrow. I hear

sadness and disappointment

in your voice,

and you thrill me

so I don’t want to lose you,

but you say okay.

I walk to Secrets

on Pine west of the Main,

sit at the bar

and nurse a pint,

staring moodily

into space

lest you abscond

with my freedom.

All well and good,

but next morning I make

egg salad and salmon salad

and God knows what other

Good Housekeeping classics,

and you arrive

looking scrumptious

in a little black dress.

We do very well

for two strangers

and fall asleep

in each other’s arms.

When we get up Sunday,

I need room to stretch

but you’re happy to spend

another day with me.

I put together breakfast

and then we chat,

you on the couch,

me squatting on the floor.

You’re shy for such a beauty

but comfortable with silence

whereas I am restless

and always on the go.

When we run out of chatter,

the silences grow longer

and I’m so pent up

I’m tempted to usher you out

but mull the consequences

of brushing off a looker,

and instead I study you

in your high-cut dress

and newfound joy.

I suggest we return

to the bedroom.

You lie down,

I loosen your frock,

marvelling at your body,

and decide I won’t be going

anywhere for a while.

— Quinn McIlhone