Molly's II.

When we met she was living with someone else. We sat at the back beneath the dart board at a time when the corner was sentried by wing-back chairs. I asked her about her wig. We laughed and talked about politics and Molly's kitsch. At the end of the first hour, Molly sauntered by and, collecting our beer glasses, voided but for their foam, switched the record player on. There was something, after the accustomed silence, about the way we stared at each other.
Four months later we parted ways, the summer wasted on mattresses and impossible expectations.