Midnight Chips
It was cold in the
night café.
An old Victorian
glasshouse
panes mirrored by
darkness
steamed by boiling
kettles
and a semi-rusty
espresso machine.
He smiled at us,
indulgent of young customers
though I suspect I was
older than he.
She had hot chocolate,
I, tea,
though the draught from
the door
was enough to raise the
flesh on my stockinged legs.
We shared chips, cooked
fresh in the microwave
behind the till, though
she liked too much tomato
sauce in her tea and
sugar on her chips
but she talked about
art and music
and wrote Gothic poetry
in purple ink
on sheets of graph
paper she nicked from school.
It was two in the
morning when I walked her home
and kissed her in the
darkness
of an underground car
park.
It took her by surprise
because she wasn't into me
but she laughed anyway,
clicking her tongue stud
against her cheek as
she walked away.
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