Too difficult in fact.

Too difficult in fact.

‘Which one should I wear?’

She turned

A short skirt in one hand

A pair of blue jeans

In the other

Holding them up

Bashfully

Against her tummy

To mask her nakedness

Forgetting the reflection

From the mirror

In the wardrobe door

Until she saw my

Laughing eyes

And pulling the skirt higher

To cover her breasts

Mimicked a

Windmill tableaux

From the days of

Black and white movies

Gaslit Soho

American servicemen

And pencil lines

Drawn down the backs of legs

To simulate nylons

‘They are your friends.’

She poked out her tongue

Whilst wiggling her bum

Furiously

‘I want to make the right

First impression

It is the middle of the day

After all.’

Where did that

Just come from?

A golden memory

Picture perfect

When just for a second

A tiny snippet of the past

Became a technicolour moment

Full of glory

A story for today.