Dinner and Foreplay

It's a game, this early dinner, for they both know what they want,
And it's nothing on the menu at this local restaurant.
Every word is innuendo, every look an impish taunt
As they talk of taste and plating
And pretend they're not just waiting.

She's let cleavage show a little more than usual tonight,
And she drags her fork out slowly every time she takes a bite.
He adjusts the napkin in his lap while taking in the sight.
Have some patience, says her smile,
It will only be awhile.

They are out the door immediately once the bill's been paid.
Both are feeling rather desperate to finish this charade,
But there's still a walk ahead of them; the game must still be played
For another couple minutes.
They are nearly at their limits.

He provides his half of chit-chat, though it seems a lifeless chore.
He's aware his paltry anecdotes are filler, nothing more,
For they'll leave this conversation (and these garments) at the door
Just as soon as it's behind them
And the city's eyes can't find them.

Her responses are half-hearted as she secretly prepares,
Taking mental inventory of the sofa and the chairs --
For it seems to her unlikely that they'll make it up the stairs
To the bed in this condition,
Stripped of patience and volition.

Any casual onlooker easily misunderstands:
They seem just another couple walking home and holding hands
(Though perhaps they grasp more tightly than a simple walk demands).
Their restrained anticipation
Seems but innocent flirtation.

At the door, she reaches down into his pocket for the key,
And perhaps her hand is there for longer than it needs to be.
Once retrieved, the key is thrust into the lock suggestively.
The door opens. They are gone.
And the lights do not come on.