She sits at the desk, tapping keys
On a word processor from the eighties,
Drinking gin and tonic with an olive
Speared by a cocktail stick. She needs
To be a little bit drunk to write these scenes
Where hands roam freely over muscular bodies,
Attracted by his money, of course.
She looks at the little words counter,
Sixty thousand done and the gin bottle
Lying empty in the waste paper basket.
Think of the money, she says as her dreams
Of being a Booker Prize winner
Flitter away on a summer breeze.