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She gathers her things for the night
And stuffs them into a bag or two.
The usual things a woman brings to her lover’s,
Most things old and something new.
An experience that is yet to be shared,
Before the dreaded morning light.

She checks her perfection with the aid of glass:
Every hair in its place and every tooth shining white.
“It must be perfect,” she whispers to herself.
“Nothing can be wrong, nothing in the slight’.”
She checks her image twice, thrice, and then again.
Before she goes with time, not wanting to be crass.

When she arrives, it is a quarter past eight.
She stands at his door with the anticipated dread,
Recalling all the imperfections inside her mind:
Makeup to hide her age and color her eyes,
Dyed hair to hide her grays, and blush for her cheeks…
She scolds herself for being late.

He opens the door and finds her in tears.
Her head hangs in her hands and hides her face.
“All wrong!” she croaks and sobs. “All ugly and wrong!"
Without a word, he guides her into his embrace.
He soothes and assures her that he loves her for all.
Before his love replaces all her thoughts of fears.

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