By the time the waitress brought
my iced milk coffee,
his noisette,
his phone upside down on the table pinged.
He picked it up,
read the notification,
said nothing.
By the time his phone pinged again,
seconds later,
by the time he read the notification,
by the time he looked at me,
his eyes had changed.
He said:
“Bonnie Tyler died in Portugal yesterday.”
I said nothing.
I said to our guest, much younger:
“She was my father’s favourite singer.”
At the wok.
In his taxi.
On the way to school.
Always,
Total Eclipse Of The Heart.
My father knew every word.
Sang every verse.
To me.
To my daughters,
like a hero.
Had her on cassette.
Had her on CD.
My husband asked our guest:
“Do you know who she is?”
Alex said:
“Yes, of course.”
By the time I said,
“He’ll get to see her perform in heaven now,”
he smiled at me,
returned to Alex,
returned to a 1960s pavilion in Gradignan,
returned his phone to the table,
face down.
