Carla Connor from Corry.
The twin-exhaust purr of her voice,
sleek, mature, Mancunian.
The sight of that big bunch of
car keys, that curtain of
dark hair swished in her wake,
after the black belted mac,
after the fact.
The double-locked flat door,
the intercom, the glugged
half-pint glass of red.
Everything smouldering.
'Not in the foreseeable'
she announces.
'Not this side of next week'
or 'I'll take that as a yes, then.'