Pheasant (Fiction)

You are sat in the far right corner

Of the bar

With champagne on ice

Flicking through BBC World News

On a cracked iPad

In a black leather case

And the

Domino chain

Of

Curious

Turning

Homogenous heads

As I pass

Causes you to glance up,

Catch my eye,

Down your

Champagne

Instantly

 

And pour two more.

 

In your haste,

Everything that was

On your lap

(iPad, wallet, The Times, bar receipt, £1.08 in change, room key)

Is

On the floor and you

Haven’t noticed and you

Haven’t

Attempted

To rectify this.

 

An unhappy woman on her third martini

Sneers at me over her

Brand new

Nose

Scrutinizing head to toe

The brand and value of my clothes;

 

Jesus.

 

I don’t belong here.

But

I have gained enough

Respect from

Managing

This dress and those heels

So

Effortlessly,

That when I stop,

Bend over,

And retrieve your items from the floor

The bar has decided

I should

Probably

Stay

 

My heart is beating as I sink into a

Chair

And

Kiss your cheek.

 

10:03

Your tie is off

And we have decided that

We

Both

Love

Formula 1

And Panerai Watches,

Wasabi peanuts,

And think the rooms at the Sanderson

Lack personality,

Both sway center-left-rightish

And

You are showing me

Photos of

You and your

Friends

In tweed

Making the most of the last

Day of

Pheasant season.

 

I find some irony

In our story
I find some

Humour

In the fact that

I-

High on champagne and anticipation,

Flapping about

In your presence

Trying to escape lust;

My soul flying

Freely

Through wicked and wanton woods

Think myself any less

Vulnerable,

Any less

Susceptible

To The Hunt

Than a pheasant-

 

Nestled in a chair and

Pecking at your neck.

 

You’ve stopped drinking but you

Pour me

Another

As I

Coo

In your ear.

 

*****

 

Finally

I lose

And

Fall into your lap.

 

-BF