We know the score.
He stays in shadow. She’s lit up.
She dips forward, lips closed tight;
head at an angle, meeting his stare.
She knows how to fasten slippers
in that way that makes men crave.
With each flex of strong ankles,
each stretch of newly hardened toes
she perfects the art of pulling.
This gentleman will play along.
Mock reluctance has its attraction,
sharpens his skills of seduction
which we suspect are quite basic
but, for this transaction, adequate.
It’s not as if she’s prima ballerina.
He’s about to bag a backrow girl.
She knows her price. Her worth will
drop given time, accidents, disease.
She’s grabbing her chances now.
His moustache is waxed, his shoes
spat on, shined by some posh valet.
In his swanky overcoat, this man
can easily afford inflated rates.
It’s all there: her desperate need;
his lust, loot, power; this dirty dance
enacted as we watch.
Dorothy Burrows enjoys writing flash fiction, short plays and poetry. This year, her poetry has appeared on various e-zines including Words for the Wild, Another North and Nine Muses Poetry. She walks regularly in the countryside near her home on the edge of the North Wessex Downs.