Her hair’s starting to unravel;
mascara sprinkles her cheek
He’s busy chewing
the wings of the grilled pheasant
she marinated all day
When he stares silently beyond
her smoth bare shoulders
at the art poster on the wall
he leans back to wonder
at what she can only guess:
the score of the football game
on the muted television screen
he so avidly discussed over soup?
She watches him through candle glow,
the reflection of flames in her wine glass,
smiles lightly to herself of the lovely afternoon
she had cooking, dancing cheerfully
with lusty fantasies before the stove,
already beginning to see there’s no beauty in it
when you work too hard for love