Romance Killer

Seventeen years married today;

you’re still at work;

Leah-Lyd and I

basking in a recent tradition

of eating Marrocco’s ice cream

on the beach in

what now truly feels like spring.

She’s bubbling around

on my lap with her back to me,

facing the sea and

spinning her cone,

trying valiantly

though in vain to

lick up the melting

vanilla ice cream.

I’ve just had a message

from Luc-John;

he’s going to Muay Thai

this evening with Ben,

which puts paid to my

hopes of a meal with just

the two of us.

He’s doing really well.

“So you’ll be coming to dinner with us, Nonsense,”

I say to Leah-Lyd

who affords me an unsurprised nod,

not breaking from her drama

with the ice cream

or even for that matter,

turning around.

“The ultimate romance killer,” I sigh.

She gives a little jolt

and I feel a few drops of

ice cream land on today and tomorrow’s

work trousers.

Leah- Lyd turns from the cone,

squinting in the four o’ clock sun

and searching out my eyes

through my sunglasses.

“Why will there be Romans there, Daddy?” she asks.