She lifts a teacup to her lips, he hefts a Chelsea bun,
A waitress casts her eyes Heavenwards, and serves them on the run,
She pours his Lapsang Souchong, he offers milk or cream,
And snaps a ginger wafer, as once did in a dream.
Their conversation falters, they skirt around the words,
The sun outside goes ‘hind a cloud, and startles flocks of birds.
Her mobile phone trills softly, it notifies a text,
From him, it says, It’s over, but I did enjoy the sex.
She leaves Earl Grey and lemon, her face is made of stone,
As she stands to leave the teashop, and make her proud way home,
He pays the bill discretely, and flashes his best smile,
At the blonde behind the counter, which is, of course, his style.
He walks out to the pavement, and feels a drop of rain,
And hails a passing taxi and is never seen again.
Copyright © Max Scratchmann. All Rights Reserved