Tom, Nicola and I

Her expression says: you’re thinking about
    me, aren’t you. Framed by the white
    pouting, she is beautiful and dusty from
    the box under his bed. ‘Nicola; not Nicky
    or Nic. Nicola.’
I meet the two of them later in a bar; we
    sit on an awkward leather sofa feeling
    shy while he makes inappropriate jokes
    about having been with the both of us. We
    drink too much and laugh about human
    pyramids, tricycles and triptychs.
When I leave he chases me down the road,
    ‘She wants you to stay. Don’t you think
    she’s beautiful?’
We perch on the end of his bed like birds
    on a clothesline, he asks us to kiss
    while he changes the CD. But he grows
    impatient and grumpy, and I go home to
    let them argue.

Laura Tansley

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