delicate porcelain graces the burgundy clad table

polished silver sits to each side

while the crystal stands guard

twin towers hold paraffin cylinders

awaiting the freshly struck match

her hand shakes in anticipation

of her returning flame

on the stove the sauce simmers

the burners turned low

lids tight to try to hold on to the heat

the dying ember she sucked to the filter smolders

lifting a whisper of smoke that will not be hushed

a long and crooked shaking finger

wafting through the darkness

her satin dress, freshly pressed warms her

and keeps her from shaking

an embrace from her oldest friend

the white pearls around her neck sitting just below her collarbone

are framed by her midnight curls

and accentuate her deep blue eyes

shimmering in the candle light

she paces, whispering reminders under her breath

ensuring everything is in its place

an adjustment or two and she manages to convince herself

everything is perfect

she raises a shaky palm to a clammy forehead

and concentrates on her breathing

in and out in and out

the clock’s tick seemingly slowed

as she takes a seat by the window

watching the lights dance on the street

tensing a little as they come

relaxing as they go

her wine glass in hand

the bottle on the sill

the candles have burnt down to stubs

the wax has soaked into the tablecloth

she snuffs the flame with a delicate breath

grabs her glass of wine, turns off the stove

and retires for the evening

she must get ready for tomorrow

Johnny’s coming home tomorrow