The Other Man

I got myself some make-up, lipstick and kohl, because I thought that I could make me pretty again, and feel pretty again, and some lovely dresses, like when I was younger, over a decade ago when I was free, when I met a man who seduced my mind and body, but I settled down too soon, and put myself in this coop, this theatre of dry wit and humour, and I still think of that man, that other man, with the golden hair and impish smile, and when I think of him I want to be pretty again, but he is not here, my make-up and dress mean nothing, I am a sad old woman, trapped in a reasonably good life without passion, without the pleasure of seduction, but only mental transactions and domestic chores, sex as interesting as tax returns and conversations that rival a deed of conveyance, and the loneliness that attends this day-to-day is a vacuous knell to a heart that is ready to collapse at any moment, so let me tell you while you are young and free marry the man that you want to fuck desperately every day and not the one you love