Ka­t­rina Naomi

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The Snug & I Saw Them Mak­ing Love

Con­fes­sions held by a stained glass door, glass coloured by tales of af­fairs and debts, horses and deaths. So much hang­ing in the air, like smoke ex­haled in the O of con­ver­sa­tion – of what might have been. There’s some­thing I’m meant not to know. And maybe, just maybe, if you could share a lit­tle of what goes on be­hind that clever ex­te­rior, all those smiles and kisses, if you could tell me about your men, I think I could be happy with you, could sit and tell what I haven’t told a soul, on this three- four- five-beer evening. I check the bar­man isn’t by the hatch, so we can be al­most safe – al­most sa­cred. The beer’s foam eases the jaws, al­lows the teeth their glory. We keep on, or­der an­other, money on the hatch – a glimpse of the hand, the wed­ding ring. The grouse in the snug’s glass turns its head as if to try not to hear what men do. The hatch flap down, we go back to our­selves, our com­mon the­atre, as if to sup in si­lence would be a fail­ure, some­how.

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