first, a foiled little lie,
a care expressed and exchanged,
a question mark or two,
an offer, an acceptance;
and he buys her a drink.
the familiar entrapment:
two bodies, another word
moving closer, backing away,
then together, dancing
as they sit
in their chairs.
she begins to watch
his lips, their form,
and he discounts her hidden
breasts, so she leans to
as he leans too, their voices
shrink, the eyes then bloom,
there's a cigarette, or maybe
two, a joke, and a story,
and the contemplation,
the uncomfortable silence,
the banter, the questions
of some deeper truth.
this pathetic
ryhthm of blinks and bodies,
this grim denial:
she likes him, he likes
her, but he
does not want her.
did he ever love?
she leans closer
as he stays uncertain.
perhaps . . .
but not tonight.
she reaches over the table,
his hand in retreat,
his eyes in retreat,
she slumps into her body,
he opens his mouth
so that she will smile
so that he can smile,
and then he stands
with his eyes
still on her,
how she can feel it,
how she wants it . . .
and it is all
just the chill
retreating through the door,
blowing to her seat as he leaves.
she waits,
tries not to breathe, without
trying, considers
the lights in her eyes,
the cold drink swaying
in its basin,
she leaves a tip,
moves down the room,
finds a stranger,
repeats.
to take home,
to fuck.