Detective III

Her grin used to stretch as wide
as the lake in Port meadow, used to override
the rules and flood the banks of her cheeks
with warmth. But now it was tired,

a punctured tyre of a smile, a half curl,
a quick muscle tap, like the flick of the finger
on a cigarette dropping ash, draining the dust
of the past.

Her filofax was full of ex
boyfriends' numbers, flagged up
like busstops and as on a tea-stained map
you could run the route of her life with your nail,
trace the heartbreak signs around London
to that boyfriend on Hampstead Heath - with the Mini
and the massive bank account - who was hers last year,
whose money woudn't stretch
as far as a family or kids. And so she left,

to wrinkle and stain her teeth with sour coffee
that kept her eyes awake
but couldn't resuscitate
the faint beat of her heart.
A year on yet
her pulse would pump again in a culprit's clutch,
a big-time thief who would rob her memory bank
of sadness, stand her back on her own two feet and leave
his tender fingerprints on forehead,
bring her hot tea in the mornings
and sweeten her smile to the tulips
that she blossomed now as far as her sparkling
eyes, seraphin-style.

The Detective: II

He'd searched
for clues too many times
not to spot the signs.

The shimmering fishscale smile in her eyes
swooped to the surface of the iris-pond,
swirling like light on lilipads
was as clear a clue to him as any footprint

her new dress might as well have been a shred
of clothing caught on a rusty nail or hung
on the body; for her body, though unbloodied,
was the scene of the crime.

He didn't need hard evidence
to read the story right - the sight
of her soft back in bed
her shoulders turned to him
left him startled, suspicious, bereft-

enough clues to look back. So that when she left
with that other man he was already there,turning it
over in his mind, their bodies in the sack,the
broken love, the knife stuck
in the back.

the wine merchant

Nicolas was her local wine merchant; she visited his shop on Fridays, and when she left she always ready to step into the weekend in style, wine in tow. The shop was narrow and teeming with bottles; they crouched by the counter like clumps of wild flowers and crept up the walls like ivy, taking ownership of the shop, transforming it into an intoxicating lair. This place was a cavern of brewed mischief, where bottles of wine as sweet as ambrosia and as dark as dragon’s blood piled high against the walls. Stepping into this haven and doing business with Nicolas was the way that she rescued herself, every Friday, from the drudgery of the working week.

Is it any wonder, then, that in the bar she fell back on Nicolas, and on alcohol, to drown her sorrows once again? It was the habit of years: she had always relied on Nicolas, received alcohol, delivered from his hands. And so, once again she accepted a drink from him, and relied on him and leant on his arm and...

...and so the affair began, in that first heady sip of wine. Nicolas had a long nose and very narrow nostrils which he used to discern the flavours of a new vintage. His eyes flashed green when he was impassioned, like blades of grass caught in sunlight. He always had a hint of stubble.

But the thing that caught her most about him was the scar. A deep red mark etched on his collarbone betrayed his adolescent apprenticeship as a wine merchant, when he dropped a bottle of wine costing thousands and a glass shard caught his torso. She often traced that scar in the dark with her fingers when he was sleeping. Years later she could draw it with her eyes closed, recreate that beautiful mark of clumsy adolescence.

The bite reimagined

« Enfin, ne pouvant bientôt plus former de sons, il mordit Pauline au sein. » ("finally, almost unable to form sounds any more, he bit Pauline's breast.") Balzac, La Peau de Chagrin

They fought about condoms, icecream, family, friends, what constitutes good music and when exactly they were going to get married, but their love for each other always stopped them from stepping over the line, crossing the threshold into single life again. Until something extraordinary happened.

He bit her breast. There was a horrific sinking sharp crackling bite, as though her breast were a prawn cracker snapped by some indifferent obese restaurant goer, his forehead thick with sweaty pleasure. His predator’s teeth were buried deep in her soft flesh, his gourmet cannibalism unleashed.

She flinched and screamed; only then did he let go. She recoiled from the viciousness of it, the pain. She couldn't understand the alien destructive impulse that had caused him to snake-like sink cold diamond-cut teeth into her human flesh.
Later, in disbelief, standing by the bathroom mirror in my own flat, she inspected the two pink, ugly rims of teethmarks - one where he had drawn blood - and the bottle-blue bruise. Even though the wound wasn’t infected, it hurt. That night sucked life out of her like snake venom.
That’s why she left. Running through the night in a tear-stained dress, she wept for a love that had kept her safe for so long and finally failed her now.