It's dusky and smoky in the room.
People are talking too loudly,
laughing at a joke of which
the punch line was lost in the din.
I shift my weight on the stool -
the dimensions not quite fitting my shape.
My skirt rides up my thighs.
I leave it there and pick up a stare
from across the room.
Not quite sure if it was meant for me,
I notice the slumped punter
lift his glass in a salute.
I nod and turn reluctantly back
to my half empty glass on the counter.
A cautious tap on my shoulder
quickens my pulse.
It is late and my head is fuzzy
from the G & T's, but this attention
is most definitely meant for me.
He mumbles sweet nothings.
Well, that is what it sounds like
through his whiskey breath slurring.
He picks up my flimsy summer wrap
and drapes it over my shoulders.
The touch from another human being
feels good on my naked skin.
I let him kiss me on the lips
and do not protest
when he calls for another round.
I cannot remember when last
someone has sweet talked me.
It is getting very late.
Suzette Richards's Other Poems
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