He’s unaware of me walking through the room.
Face gripped by concentration,
greying hair dampened into place by a ring of sweat,
his fingers caress her black and white,
start gently before pounding in to her,
careering over every line of her skin.
As she warms up, he is transported back
to the Albert Hall, the Carnegie Hall,
the endless celebrity tours –
he sees Amsterdam, Vienna, Berlin, Sydney –
and his features relax.
Eyes dart back to the crowds making for their seats,
seeking out the elegant Swiss soprano
who followed him from city to city,
yet also meant nothing.
Hours later, he stands up from the stool,
flicks his imagined coat tails, closes her lid,
comes through to share supper with me,
his wife, his other woman.