He doesn’t follow
when she dances in her room.
She moves with rhythm
through the special confusion
reserved for housemates
who develop affection at different paces.
They sit outside playing cards
as the jasmine infuses a pristine evening.
They are playing with options
like juggling over-ripe plums.
Her chair has smooth castor wheels but
she feels stuck, scared
of moving off into mosquitos.
The table bubbles rust
and it’s hard enough just to hold the cards
close to her shallow chest.
An eyelash, heavy
with unnoticed mascara,
falls
limbo for a few seconds past laughter …
and the rum consumed consumes.
Next morning they brush
hips in the kitchen
as they make lunch.
She wants to cry:
talk sense, make sense
not sandwiches!
She resists suggesting
he put her into his purple lunchbox
to resolve a different type of hunger.