Such was his pain. To be cheated
by a woman so ordinary. He wished
he could call her an adulteress.
No flames were licking lamps, and
they drank fruit juice. Two glasses.
He wishes the woman had chosen an
affair more passionate. If only she
had shinier hair. Or sat up all night
talking of Rumi to her lover. He could
have then hugged himself at night,
sighing over one word (like torrid).