Do humour me. I'm returning to writing satire & comedy in the next couple of days.

I saw the picture before I painted the scene. I'm just experimenting with different styles.

by Susan Abraham

And as she carefully padded her way towards us, stopping at intervals to watch, wait and sneer; I did not know what to do. She looked every inch the drunk, lording it about the hushed room with her bottle-swinging swagger.

Her expression became suddenly distressed; her pinched face appeared to drain itself of life and she could have easily puppeted a first-class marionette.

And as I turned meekly to you, my upward gaze troubled by the appearance of this strange playful corpse that may at any time halloween up a Dracula with its vengeful passions, I shivered violently.

You whispered not to move and to be quiet; that she would have nothing on us and that there was no way you would let her smash my face with the half-empty brandy bottle.

My hot lips still sore from where we had kissed, my orange lipstick crumpled and the warmth of your body still leaving me flushed with excitement, could not rid itself of this frightening romance.

We parted, slowly fishing our arms out from each other's hold with a swift, practised dexterity.

I turned my head cautiously for a second look. She continued to stare angrily but said nothing.

Should I take the risk, fumbling in my handbag for an urgent tissue. Except that now, you were no more my sweetheart but the suave gentleman, trying to play it cool.

You paced the room lightly while dipping into your pocket to fish out a lighter. Then you lit a Marlboro as if you hadn't a care in the world. Finally after what seemed like a long spell of ignoring the dangerous audience, you picked up my coat and murmured "Come on Elle, it's time to go."

Your defiant expression and a studied wink, warned me to say nothing. Your eyes slowly softened and I knew that you still loved me. Her presence had changed nothing. Strangely at this moment, that still mattered more to me than anything. I would have found my own Dutch courage even if your past flame chose to lunge at me.

What else could one do...when one hungers after another's skin in the same way a cat sensually traces its prey. Why nothing of course. In many ways, nothing at all.