Keys

As the car took a sharp bend, the

keys caught her eye as they

swung in the street-light:

was the miniature Eiffel Tower

deliberately phallic or just an

amusing souvenir?

And that long Chubb looked serious:

was there a dungeon chez lui where his

wife liked to be stretched?

Would he want a bit of rough, this

man she barely knew? Would she

hurt in the morning? Would she mind?

She thought of that silly rabbit’s foot she’d

bought for her husband, wondered

whose wife was looking at that

swinging in another street-light, whether she

would think him weird: and where was

this man’s wife? In a

BMW, a Ford, a Peugeot?

Clean? Or cluttered, with

“Baby on Board” in the rear-window?

His cool hand crept up her

warm thigh to where there was

space for cold flesh, opening naturally,  

all beginning with a bowl, a

blindfold, a chaos of keys, a

story to tell in the morning.