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 Thorne

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

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