He’s wearing a white T-shirt
rolled up to the shoulder so his biceps bulge,
blue jeans low on his hips.
Just gotta read the meter, guys.
He rummages under the stairs,
giving us a view from the back.
He whistles, hums,
clears his throat of a smoky cough.
Marla elbows me,
stares at the poor man’s arse
like she’s never seen a human being before.
I’d take some of that, she says
far too loudly
and I snort into my hand.
The guy, no more than thirty,
turns and holds up an
electronic gadget.
Right, all done. I’ll get out of your hair.
He hooks both thumbs into his pockets
and looks down at Marla’s bare feet,
the toenails painted blue
by me
last night
after I’d done my own
and she demanded I do hers too.
I didn’t want to, of course –
get so close to an old lady’s gnarly feet.
But I did it anyway.
They were bony, feather-light –
like holding a bird.
No rush now at all, Marla says.
I’ll fix you a drink.
Unless you’d like to take me out and buy one.
I like a fruity cocktail.
What about you?
Shall we go for a quick one?
A drink, I mean!
The meter reader rubs one thick eyebrow.
Not sure my missus would like that.
Marla creeps towards him –
takes his hands.
Well, I won’t tell her if you don’t.