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
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.