Muse on Vacation

She went west with the wind,

apologetic but glad to be going,

weary of wet weather and bored with

lows and depressions and the

lack of new words for

old anguish, but loving the

buzz of the hub where the

deck of flights was dealt and the

duty-free where she bought a

big tube of the whiskey he liked and a

carton of the cigarettes he’d

unwisely eschewed—she

smoked six in a row and

light-headed found a bar where she had

a Gin and Tonic

exactly as he liked it.



The waves were perfect as they

lapped her toes and she

lapped up the hot stares of

dark men as they eyed her

darkening body in her

micro-bikini, while images were

crammed like microfiche ready

for a time when the erotic

might appeal to him again.



At sunset, cocktail at elbow,

guilt crept into her via the

sunburnt back of her neck and she

thumbed open her phone

startled at writing something herself:

“Hey babes, I hope you are well. I

really needed this time to myself and I

know you understand, so please

stay strong! I send you

sunny kisses xx.”



The launch sound of Send felt final,

as though she could see her text

arcing red into the night sky—to

find what? Perhaps it would be

deleted at the dinner table amidst laughter, her

replacement by his side? Or maybe he had

succumbed to that incipient despair she’d

fled from? What would she

do then? Pregnant with his words,

expecting but

unable to deliver?