Roxy Dunn blusters in, hurried, breathless, her hair tied back, still a little damp from perhaps a shower, and sits next to me. I motion for the waiter who takes a moment to notice I have, but then comes over, smiles, gets his pad out and stands poised, with a pencil. I turn to Roxy, my eyebrows also framing the waiter’s question.
I advise a big sexy lunch
says Roxy
The six course Italian kind
Beginning with champagne
Warm smoked eel
Pickled blackberries
On a bed of beetroot
Straight to it then? I reply and she smiles at me, the waiter writing down the order, repeating it back to us before scuttling off to the kitchen. So, I ask, how have you been?
The pub feels repetitive, Netflix makes me bitter
I can’t get addicted to Trump’s Twitter
I know what she means. The waiter brings our drinks over. We each take a sip.
This weak lemon barley
tastes of our childhood
she tells me and I’m glad I went for the house white.
There are things I ought to learn
Roxy’s eyes are cast down as she says this.
like driving a car and stoicism
I concur, but suggest, gently, that one may be more useful than the other, but am not myself sure which. Our food arrives. We tuck in.
Don’t tell me fullness is found
from a man, I’ll shoot myself
or dehydrate, a more feasible option
I chew this over with my food. Roxy goes on
Today Hyde Park is hotter
than Hawaii, Buckingham Palace
is the backdrop of the sky
you’ve got to buy in to it, believe
I wait for her to finish, my fork poised, my breath held.
I can do this.
And you know what? I think she can.
jackisreading 