Then as the 22 year old brash waiter poured the pink champagne into her crystal flute, she grasped her bony claw, putrid with wealth, about his plump little wrist and said “that’s is what we like, your service, the way you look after us. That is what we like. You look after us.” the unforgiving mantra ran deep into the bones of her husband, bones perched beside her floral majesty. He grunted. It was a grunt of years and years of utter frustration that money could not buy him the love he craved, and yet he walked by old Lucy at the corner every day thinking to himself “stupid old drunk, should find their way home” and laughs (with that annoying chompf chompf sound men with moustaches you may imagine may develop) to himself disdainful but now attracted by how he could be just as evil as his uncle but we won’t talk about that: and yet his wife his bloody wife was like a rag doll no feeling or interest and seemed to have forgotten that he may like it too, yes him, remember you married another human being for gods sake, but what is the point she does not understand his blatant assertions as she declaimed as though glances of concern that were indeed a criminal imposition upon her character.
Nicholas Alexander's Poetry