He is not with me tonight.

Fifteen minutes away, and she is not with him, yet he is not with me tonight.

This is his night to be alone. Two or three with her; the same with me, and how can I object to him sitting alone, one night per week?

He stays home, plays the guitar, cooks dinner, pets the calico cat. He will call me, and her. Tomorrow is my night, but tonight he would rather be alone.

I would rather he were with her. I would rather that she rested in his arms, that he kissed her gently, that she smiled with the pleasure of his company, laughed at his jokes.

I would rather that their sweaty bodies lay entangled, a sweet exhaustion heavy in their limbs.

He is wasted on the cat.

Copyright ©February 24, 1998 by M.A. Mohanraj. All rights reserved.

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