The Woman, The Pet and The Bad Boy

 
There was a time not long ago she would not have given Arthur a second look.
Arthur did not thrill her and she was not in love with his mind.
He put in her French drain, locks, installed her wood stove--that was the hook
yet when he touched her she would rather not and involuntarily pined 

and pained for Dimitri and the deliciously wicked way he made her feel,
like a magnificent whore ravaged, breathless and owned by this man.
Addicted to his every wish-- the money she gave him, she'd do anything for him, but he wasn't real:
He was like a fantasy lived and in the end he, the great Dimitri, ran.

She often wondered if he ever considered the destruction left in his wake.
The tears and grieving didn't help, not the self-flagellation, not even time itself.
Then Arthur came along, a plodding, predictable and loyal man who would never forsake:
He adored like a pet and loved her more than he loved himself.

She stood behind her new sliding glass door and looked out into her yard
watching her Arthur happily hammering down cedar shingles on the roof of her new shed.
Arthur waved to her smiling, sweating-panting, then resumed working fast and hard.
He's my pet, she thought and felt a slight exhilaration with no malicious intent and couldn't get Dimitri out of her head.