You step back, yet I move in.
You say, “I’ll be right back, I have to make a phone call.”
You walk away. I crumble.
The bartender watches. He sympathizes.
I don’t need his sympathy, I am a rock.
I sit at the bar. It’s sticky, and you
have not returned. I tip my glass
and nod my head. Another whiskey comes my way…
I see you through the window.
Why are you outside? Are you leaving?
I see the phone light up your face
leaving you glowing, haloed.
I hang my head; embarrassed.
I feel the eyes of the bar upon me.
“Why did she leave him,” they ask each other.
I do not know. I don’t know you.
Yet you return.
“Sorry,” you say. “Work call.”
I don’t believe you. 8:30 on a Tuesday night?
Still, you returned. I order you a drink.
Vodka Cranberry. Our eyes meet, and our feet touch
under the bar. Maybe it was a work call.
I don’t know. I hardly know you.
You lean in and kiss me.
Maybe it was a work call.
Doug is a 29 year old poet and singer/songwriter from Indiana. A lifelong musician and writer, he aims to make art that changes perspectives. If you wish to contact him, please e-mail him at firstname.lastname@example.org.