Into His Parlour

He is pale, slight, balding and
supremely unctuous, a present day
Uriah Heep who might well have
wobbled out of a novel by Dickens.
His pale, watery eyes glance past
mine, eyelids twitching, never
quite meeting mine even as his
lips quiver sincerity, inviting me 
into the inner sanctum of his
passions. As a dealer in fine antiques
as a committed animal lover whose
devotion to the welfare of feral
cats is outdone only by his
adoration of heritage silver,
oriental porcelains, bronze and
marble sculpture, Renaissance
paintings and Continental furniture
design, he lives, he says, with mawkish
confidentiality, to please himself. 
And, on this occasion, he nudges the 
air between us, it is his pleasure to 
please me. Moving ever closer each 
time I seek to withdraw from the 
intimate proximity he appears to crave, 
the distance closes, and I feel
stifled. He the spider, I the fly caught
in the sticky web of desire, client and
dealer; the fly helpless in the
pantomime of prey seeking escape.