Out of His Reach
She shook her head roughly from side to side,
In answer to his plea. As much as she loved him,
She would not let him in again. She had learned
To understand and accept his obsession, his weakness
As he called it, but she could not accept his lying.
She could no longer trust him. He was a man
In his fifties, with strands of golden-brown hair
Placed carefully across his scalp, a dark tan,
And lips painted with a faint red lipstick.
Remarkably good-looking, when he wanted to be.
He shifted, perhaps just to put out his hand,
But it frightened her, and she stepped back,
Out of his reach. The chain on the door
Held fast. She let him talk, and she listened
To his words, but gave them no thought.
The story had progressed beyond whatever
He might have to say, or whatever he sought.
It was too bad, but she wanted him to leave.