Eleven fifty-eight:
Plate in hand, Trish sniffs perfume — someone else’s.
Sneaking shower-ward, Jerry catches a clue, tries a smile.
Trish’s narrowed eyes detect rumpled hair and untucked shirt.
Eleven fifty-nine:
Trish makes up her mind, grabs her bag.
Midnight:
Trish walks out — resolution kept.
Fuck him and them black-eyed peas.
© Copyright 2021 by Jim Latham
| Twitter | Facebook |Photo by Deon Black on Unsplash
Originally published in The Bad Influence
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