Claudine asks
how about Marianne?
Pregnant, I say.

We look at Claudine's ring.
She tells the story of the proposal.

Claudine asks
how about Anna?
I tell her the story of Anna's call last night
when she said she wanted to meet in Barcelona,
when she said she wanted babies.

We order another bottle of wine.

Claudine asks
how about Lydia?
I haven't heard a peep, I say.
The last I heard she'd fled to Canada
with a broken neck and a lover she didn't love so much.

We reminisce
and I think of the chat with Jack last night
when he said - Claudine invited you to look around her room.
Of course she wanted you, you fool!

Claudine asks
how about Jack?
I tell her about the conversation last night
when Jack said he was thinking of cheating on Carrie,
the moment I knew for sure his relationship is doomed.

And Claudine asks
what about Carrie's friend, Alysa?
So I tell her about the time Alysa thought I was about to kiss her
but I was only trying to tell her to switch on the light.
She blushed.
She had a thing for you, Claudine says.
Really? I'm not so sure. I hope so. I want to fuck her.

I feel grief for all my wasted opportunities.

I tell Claudine about Deanna,
the terrible fuck of yesteryear.
I tell Claudine about the girls who picked me up at the favourite local bar.
I don't tell her about the limp cock,
or about Gaelle in my bed again,
lying together without the hint of sex.

I do say: I am asexual now.
Claudine does not believe.

She fondles the pendant at her chest.
I try not to look at her breasts.

Claudine says:
you always attract the crazies.

The waiters who know me well
give me nods and winks as they top up her glass.
They do not know the score.
They think this is some expedition,
and they are conspiring to aid me in a conquest.
But Claudine is a territory I used to know,
a geography from long ago,
sketched on faded maps with incomplete and fanciful navigation.

Claudine asks
why don't you write a book about this instead?
You could sell millions of copies
if you just put all this down on paper.

Ha. Ha. Haa.
You're not wrong.

We talk about Yorkshire.
I excuse myself for a cigarette,
and outside
I long for it to be ten years ago
in Claudine's room
in that safe and sound environment
where nobody would think of marriage
or of children.

Time is a crush.

I am a relic
that others love to cherish.
I am a fetish
but I have thoughts of my own.
This relic longs for hours when gods
walked upon the waters
turning oceans into wine
performing acts of healing
with the flicking of a tongue
and the flaring of Her eye.

Claudine,
I do not say,
my love,
I've lost.