dinner

the restaurant is in the throes of the saturday night rush.
conversations elbow for room in each booth and lounge underneath heavy shaded lamps in fashionable jeans and print dresses.
eyelashes bat and lips move and laughter strokes the flames of the purely ornamental candles so that everything feels fluid, feels like the whole pulsating, ragged scene is natural.
in this midnight maelstrom, for me there’s only you.
drinks come.
you handle your martini glass, your fingers lithe to match the stem, with a practiced indifference.
eyes are made over the lip of the menu,
i pretend i care about calamari more than the slightest flush to your skin set in ivory.
the waitress comes, flat eyes behind librarian glasses.
i think she dislikes you for the timbre of your voice snakes through the din
and that each curve of your form contrasts to this place’s time honed ordinariness
you’re unsure
i await your leisure
you order then i order and then we’re left to our voices
and my poorly disguised attention
the cardigan comes off and the verdigris dress you’re wearing hangs with a calculated carelessness
the simplest of set ups
i’m entrapped
between the spun golden columns of your curls
breaks the evilest of smiles
fueled mostly by my inquiries you start to ramble on freely
and i wonder if anyone has stopped to ask you questions,
or inquired with hope that you’d open one of the doors of your heart
i turn a phrase, a laugh, a joyous fragile ringing genuine sound, springs forth
in your eyes i see more surprise than i felt