Your bleeding hearts

‘At first I was afraid, I was petrified’, sings a gloss-black, vinyl Gloria Gaynor.

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Friday nights have a ritual all their own: you pressing ABBA blue to creping eyelids.

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Your perm, ringed by its aura of Harmony; puffs of Panache to girder your confidence.

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Pinching off another of your bleeding hearts, I’m prepared to let you ‘go, walk out the door.’

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Each week, watching you, readying to leave us – tiny heart crushed by the Polos in your purse.