By T. J. Dennett
Last night's vodka wishes sit granted at the bottom
of a wastepaper basket, as clothes lie abandoned
like dead effigies across the bedroom carpet.
A headache groans as she checks for her phone
for messages on Facebook, WhatsApp and Twitter.
Pulling the sheets over her face, her tongue
kisses the familiar taste on her lips:
masculine, bitter.
Three floors below a pigeon spreads rumours
to passing students in the breeze,
about how she teased his religion
and his sense of humour, but got down on her knees;
brushing her finger through the hairs from his navel,
to the belt on his jeans.
They called her Riley because she'd done it on a snooker table.
The morning sky glows brighter than the hair of Patsy Palmer
as she examines the evidence
like a detective drama;
searching for clues within the threads
of her cotton pyjamas.
Her hangover triggers a memory that comes thick and fast,
like a strawberry jelly, as she reaches for a glass
of water and places her hand on her belly.
Six months later, head bowed in pretend prayer
over library tables; revising for exams,
she sees her future ahead of her:
rocking cradles and pushing prams.
T. J. Dennett is a writer and performer from Northamptonshire, England. He lives with his wife, daughter and their Labrador.