The struggle

Presenting herself to me
presenting herself as a challenge, to me
her eyes were aggressive, stand-offish
but inside them were curtains she wanted opened,
her hand like a tassel on her leg and I
didn't know whether to offer mine
so I
could draw those curtains open

There were drinks of time
I
watched amongst ice cubes a splatter of suitors
all spluttering secrets,
some more suave than others;
but her mean face didn't crack. She was
the only house on the night street you couldn't peep into, a glass
tableau of mind;
the only one
with a queue weaving around the corner;
because everyone there
had one thing in their nostrils:
a breath of red light
that exuded from under her eyelashes

I felt the hard bounce of
faux leather under my hand. I had
calculated my approach, I was determined not to be
another horse to fall at the last
hedge.
But I saw the danger.
I was breathing in red – all the twirls and intoxicating red! -
but she had already started the playlist
of facial expressions to banish losers. Then -

she leaned into me -

I caught my breath – full of red – full of feeling -
this was it,
I had succeeded -

my vision fell as
her mouth envisaged a sentence.

Reclining back on a bed in the air
were the words;
'You don't want me,
you want the challenge.'

I told her, I rushed to her with adamance and gifts
of sincerity,
I told her I wanted both,
I wanted romance,
and I wanted the dance of two souls
that would open the curtains of her eyes.
She said,
'Romance is just the kindness
that comes before sex,
and the struggle
that comes before
has a sweetness
that the struggle after
wishes it had.'

I was without words. She spat at me,
'Don't be kind, just to get
what you want.'

I still go back there now. I take up the same seat,
floating over ice, taking in the notes of instruments,
letting them press stories all over my skin.
And I take notes. Because,
she's still there
presenting herself to me,
presenting herself as a challenge to me.
I struggle
with the defeat
that rises from the word punctured gut
I see on the faces of rejected suitors
who step right up
to play at the game of her
in between slot machines
and heavy drinking.

I am racked with despair,
and even drinks
don't taste as good,
because the struggle now, after,
is far more sour
than the one before.