Mutable (August)

Her raven hair fell to her hip. Knowing eyes lit up at the right words. Length of her body was memorable nights, beyond gossip now. Then forty years later, there she is. Picture online at a respectable institution. Her smile of formal resignation, first sign I see. Body broader, hair streaked with life. Nothing between us but mutable computer glass. Or on August weekends, my university friend, actor-jokester with his suitcase of scripts. He’s centre-stage in a DVD thriller, but portly and bald now. Still playing the fool, while smart ones win the golden prizes. Well, they’re alive, at least.