Because breakfast was not a banquet,

Jessie ate her croissant like a sulky child:

not bothering to brush flakes

from her nose, her chest, her mouth.

I wanted my rumbustious lover back,

to tell her that every woman I ever dated

demanded Stanley’s Unabridged History

replayed/ verbatim/ once more/ with feeling,

or I’d be accused of withholding

(one pithy volume, remaindered, anyway).

You never talk, Stanley, about yourself.

Your father must be on your mind; it’s not fair.

Last night I rinsed my lungs clean for you!

She scraped her chair back so noisily

its vibrations scratched over my teeth.

The waiter, frothing a cappuccino at the bar,

cocked his head, as if sensing trouble.

I’m going to the loo. Think it over.

Furthermore, I am NOT a gobskotch!

I wanted to shout after her, Jessie,

I’m not brave enough to excavate the dead,

to present my father on a cold mortuary slab

for a woman’s psycho-sloppy autopsy.

Some things are better left unearthed.

Let him rest and let me rest, if you please.

Cette place est libre, said an intrusive voice

without the intonation of a question.

No, the seat wasn’t bloody free, twat!

I glared up to see an incandescent creature

towering over me, a darker equivalent

of the Russian ballet dancer Nureyev,

possessed of the same hauteur

and barely bridled sexuality.

When I clocked the white bob-wig

drawn back from his forehead in waves,

showing off his rouged tawny skin,

creamy lace kerchief hanging in ruffles,

brocade waistcoat, the velvet blue breeches,

white silk stockings over athletic calves,

I guessed he’d sneaked in from the past

and hoped Jessie was suddenly constipated.

(For a drama was about to commence

in which I was merely an audience member.)

He slapped kid-leather gloves on to the table.

The waiter rushed over, rubbing his hands.

Le Chevalier de Saint-Georges

It is such an honour …

– Bring my rum concoction, lime, bitter, syrup You will remember, two glasses, clean, this time Fais vite! Je suis dévoré de soif!

On a mission of diplomatic importance,

the waiter brisked off, twisting his handlebar,

while another white-wigged man entered,

rubicund of face, this one was quite unimposing,

the warp and weft of his similar attire strained

by buttons all but popping off.

– Hector, you are late

– By the grand total of three minutes, Joseph

– You know I am a martinet about time
Ah, I forgive your weaknesses, would that I had any

– To be perfect, Joseph. ‘Tis such a burden, n’est-ce pas?

– Indeed it is. I have ordered my favourite rum punch It is sublime, my friend, sublime

The waiter poured their drinks ceremoniously,
napkin over arm, an ingratiating smile.

Joseph sat opposite, languorously,
as if the café were his personal fiefdom.

Hector sat next to me, Michelin legs splayed,
perched eagerly on the edge of his seat.

– À votre santé!

They clinked glasses.

– This is a fine elixir with which you tempt me, Joseph