Soiled Hands

Mercedes de Acosta

After everyone had left,
It was always so wonderful sitting in the dark theatre with you,
There was a mystery about it,
As though the echo of many plays
Still lingered in the folds of the curtain,
While phantom figures crouched low in the chairs,
Beating applause with vapor hands.
Do you remember how we always sat silently?
I would shut my eyes to feel your closeness nearer.
Then slowly and like a ritual
I would take your hand,
And you would laugh a little and say,
“My hands are awfully sticky”—or
“I can’t seem to keep my hands clean in this theatre.”
As if that mattered… as if that mattered…