Yes, I know.
You were expecting someone else. You were expecting Johnny. You’re wondering what I’m doing here. You’re wondering who I am.
I’m the person you’re going to hurt. I’m the one who’ll die a little when you kiss. I’m the one who’ll suffer when you take him to your dim-lit bedroom.
He won’t have told you of me. He never does. When you’re like Johnny and me you understand completely. I know him like you never will.
You aren’t the first, you know. The others are all gone now. They won’t be back.
I’ll wait here with you—it’s no trouble. When Johnny comes I’ll fade back. I’ll take my blows unseen. From the cover of the bushes there I’ll watch you snake your hand around his back. I’ll watch you close your eyes. I’ll watch.
And when your sordid thing together is finished and Johnny is alone again I’ll come for you.
A threat? No.
I’ll come to talk. To make sure you haven’t hurt him too.
Madness? Who are you to ask? Who are you? Who?
He’s coming. The Harley’s throb.
I’ll go away to watch now, while you enjoy his arms, his skin, his touch. And we will speak again when he has gone.
2011—Richard Holt / small stories about love (smallstoriesaboutlove.wordpress.com)