‘It’s not exactly Freud’s couch.’
she leans the NHS chair,
soupy eyes brimmed with exotica.

Where will this take me?

‘I’ve just one story to tell
then it’ll all all be all right,’
she breathes, ‘Years ago
I met the man of my dreams.
He’s back - I googled him.
What persuaded me?
The angst !
Knowing his eyes
Can leak from the screen any time.’

A rare sun drop yellows her,
warming a sterile wall.

‘It hit me by a high window -
I was the Other woman.
The vertigo stayed when
He left
just before Father died.

Two gentle, solid men dissolve.

So there’s my tale.
I’ll never be the apple of an eye again -
Just the bags and wrinkles!
I guess you get a lot of this.’

Her feet squeak on the lino
as she thanks and leaves.
Outside mingles with her
before the door closes.