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.