He stares at her from across the room,

writes a note, rehearses what he'll say.

Maybe he's remembering the way she used to

accidentally kick him beneath the table,

or that night in the backyard

he bragged about the morning after.

He turns a page, finds a poem he wrote for her.

His fingers scramble on the paper.

She's trying not to notice.

She laughs a little louder,

speaks of new love with impunity,

rubs the heel of her hand across her cheek

the way his hands always used to.

She shifts the ring on her finger.

After awhile they step outside.

She lights a cigarette, smokes it to the filter,

shakes and curses it out when it

singes her sharp mulberry nails.

He watches the scattered light,

follows it around in the shape

of a silver band, says something

tender and utterly forgettable.

Above them the sky is chalk and charcoal,

veiled with low clouds, trying to stay cool.

Copyright (c) 2000 by Beth Kinderman. This is my original work, so please respect it.