Slow Dressing 1986 Poem by Terry Collett

Ariadne dresses slowly,
dresses with an eye
on Bernice,
who lies in bed watching
her dress
in the dressing table mirror.

I can dress slower
if you want,
Ariadne says,
eyeing Bernice,
watching the eyes
watching her.

Undress again
would be better,
Bernice says,
come to bed again
would please me more.

Can't got work to get to,
Ariadne says,
buttoning up her blouse,
fingers fiddling slowly.

Shame on you,
leaving me alone
in this bed,
all on my lonesome,
Bernice says.

Ariadne brushes her
short red hair,
eyeing the girl
in bed behind her,
the nakedness visible
where she lies uncovered.

Can't have me
all the time,
need to work,
need to get out
and earn,
Ariadne says,
putting the brush down,
smiling shyly.

Bernice sits up,
and gets
to the side of the bed,
and walks to where
Ariadne stands,
and hugs her tightly.

I got to work too,
but wanted you
just one more time,
Bernice says,
then kisses
Ariadne's shoulder,
lips on white blouse.

Time waits for no one,
got to go,
have me tonight
once I'm home,
Ariadne says,
turning,
kissing Bernice's brow.

She departs
and leaves the room.

Bernice stands,
and gazes at
the door now closed.

The bed is empty.

The smell of mixed scents,
and body odours,
and stale juices
fill the room
like invisible ghosts.

Bernice goes out the room,
and walks to the bathroom,
and goes in,
and closes the door,
and sits and pees,
and hums a few bars
of a Smiths song,
feeling unloaded,
but nothing's wrong.