BERNADETTE AND LAYLA

Two women in their forties,
they frequented the same clubs
we did, eyed up
the hard jawed men
we dreamed we might love.
Ruthless with youth,
we joked about the possibility
of ending up like them: loveless,
overpainted, still cruising
when weariness had clawed its name
on our faces, driven us
to lurid hair tones.
Layla, with her snakelike body
weighty breasts,
lived on the dance floor,
not caring if she
danced alone or with
some boorish stranger
intent on a nameless piece.
But Bernadette slumped over her
drink and smoke like
a private fire
and waited for last call,
her dismal perm a dark halo
around her head.
We saw them as extras
in a film about us,
never guessing how soon
the shadows of their demise
would appear in our own glasses,
how soon we would be
forced to choose
between Bernadette’s bleary resignation
and Layla’s brazen spin
against the tumbling dark.

first appeared in The Ontario Review