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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: January 29, 2016

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Submitted: January 29, 2016



You had a disturbed night,
Brian says sitting up in bed
gazing at Nuala beside him.

Did I? she says, what makes
you say or think that? you kept
calling out. She stares ahead,
wondering what she'd said.

Calling out what? she asks.

Brian looks at her concernedly.

A name, he says, taking in her
body, the breasts just visible,
one of her hands holding on to
the covers, the other at her side.

What name? she asks turning
to stare at him, trying to look
unconcerned, but is failing.

Una, I think it was, he says,
that woman you've met recently,
what's she done to upset you?
he says, raising thick eyebrows.

Just called her name? she says,
feeling panic rise within her.

Yes, but you seemed worried
about something, he says, she
been upsetting you? Nuala smiles,
no of course not, just a dream
I expect, she says. Brian shrugs
his shoulders, well whatever,
he says, so how about a tea
and breakfast? He lies down
beside her, eyeing her, or we
could before hand, you know.

She looks at him, the panic
evaporating, but not wanting
him to return to the subject,
she snuggles down next to him,
kisses his cheek, why not, she
says, wishing it was Una there,
wanting it to be her hand on her
thigh not his. He breathes on her
in his sexual way, his fingers like
sausages touching her, lies there
as he moves onto her, bull heavy,
words replaced by his grunts, it's Una
there in her mind, her on her not him,
the light blocked out by his huge frame,
the room dim.

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