He gently set the steaming hot plate onto the table. He was preparing for the dinner date set at 8pm. He glanced at the clock hanging on the wall, 7:52. I hope she’s not going to be late again, he thought to himself. His thought was interrupted by a knock at the door. He strolled towards the door, hoping it was her standing on the other side. His face instantly lit up when he opened the door to see her. She smiled back at him, gazing at him with her big brown eyes.

“I’m glad you’re not late tonight Hara,” he took her hand to allow her into the apartment.

“Yes, I’m glad too. Although it’s a shame the rain set early in tonight,” Hara patted her slightly damp hair. She glanced at her reflection in the television to check her appearance. She was wearing a pale pink mini dress, complementing her light brown hair.

“Porphyria’s Lover.”

Hara cocked her head, “What?”

“What you said earlier, ‘the rain set early in tonight’. It’s the first line of Porphyria’s Lover, a poem by Robert Browning. I was teaching it to my grade 11 class today. Come, I prepared mushroom risotto tonight.” He took her hand again and led her to the dining table.

“Tell me more about this poem,” Hara asked as he tucked her onto the chair. “I love it when you’re passionate about literature.”

He sat down opposite her. “Oh do you now? Well, the poem begins with Porphyria, arriving to her lover’s house. And she’s late.” He smirked at Hara, referring to the many times Hara was late for their dates.

Hara blushed and ate a spoonful of the risotto. “Well Porphyria didn’t have to constantly make up excuses to her husband, just so she could see her lover did she?”

“Actually, she was married too. She was having an affair with her lover.” He emphasised the word affair. “Anyway, Porphyria takes off her dripping cloak and her gloves, and lets her damp hair fall. She puts her lover’s arm around her waist and makes her shoulder bare.”

Hara stands up, ignoring the unfinished dish on her plate now. She takes his hand and leads him to the couch. Hara puts his arm around her and pulls down the left shoulder of her dress. “Like this?”

He nods. “And, stooping, made my cheek lie there,” he quoted the poem, resting his cheek on Hara’s exposed, smooth, pale white shoulder. He embraces her in his arms, wishing she did not belong to another man, so that she could be his completely. Hara doesn’t lean into him. She sits perfectly straight on the soft white couch. They sit together in silence.

“I don’t want you to leave,” he breaks the silence.

“I know,” she whispers, “but I’ll have to go home eventually.”

“Why can’t you just leave your husband?” he removes himself from her. He’s growing frustrated. It’s a pain for him to watch her leave every night, when he knows Hara’s heart belongs here, with him.

“You know why. I have children to think of. I don’t want them to grow up without a father.”

“But what about what you want. He doesn’t give you what you want. What you need…”

Hara hesitates. She looks down at her twiddled thumbs. “No. I can’t do this anymore. I can’t keep lying to my husband and sneaking out. I can’t do it anymore.” She abruptly stands to leave.

He grabs her hand to stop her. “Please don’t leave. Stay here with me, please?” he begs her.

Hara looks down, avoiding looking him in the eye. “I can’t. I have to think of my children…”

He realises pleading isn’t enough to make her stay. He sighs in defeat. “Let me hold you one more time.”

Hara wraps her arms around him. Even in high heels, she is petite and reaches his chest. She rests her head on him, he clutches her tightly to his body. They embrace each other, and the last moment they have together. Hara pushes herself away from him to prepare to leave, but he squeezes her to him more tightly. His arms are wrapped around her neck, and she is completely trapped. Hara struggles and tries to remove herself from the chocking hold.

“You should stay for a bit more. Don’t you want to know how the poem ends? The lover takes Porphyria’s long yellow hair, ‘three times her little throat around, and strangled her’.” He plays with Hara’s soft light brown hair, tightening his grip on her neck with his right arm. Hara pushes and pushes against him; her cries are muffled against his body. Finally, her arms drop to her side. He carries her body back to the couch. He positioned her as she sat before, and opens her eyes. He goes to the kitchen, and returns with a bottle of red wine and two glasses. He pours a glass for himself and one for Hara. He quotes the final lines of the poem:

“And thus we sit together now,

And all night long we have not stirred,

And yet God has not said a word!”

He clinks his wine glass against Hara’s, which was sitting on the table, put his arm over her corpse, and takes a sip.