WATER SPORTS
Antony Nicholls

After a shoot, we'd undress
in the dark-room, her kitchen.
Oily trays vibrated. Soaked
monochrome photos shone.

Sapped, still naked, I'd bolt
the bathroom door, tip-toe
past drip-drying faces to
splash against silent basin.

Until one night, I woke her,
caught short - 2.13am.
She touched my pyjamas,
their heavy lap of nylon

slick, obvious. Sophie's
face lava-lit, ripples
ran to laughter; she'd
smelt it, understood.

Sat up, a pout. I trusted
her goldfish memory,
doses of smut at night,
by day, model and artist.

Bathroom door burst open
and I'd squat her in
jets, the enamel cathedral.
That sulphur slash on flesh

breaks as if breasts
are salmon, egg-laying,
or risen to the bait.
Last drops. We wait.

Eventually split. It felt
about time. Dragging
my pedal bike
home, its gears

locked, I saw her face
pressing the window;
she was like a dog in rain
at the grave of its owner.