You and Me

Everyday the slow line. You’re up, lawyer suit--white blouse, touch of ruffle--wakening friendly facial features for the first time this morning. It’s more than you’re ready for, so it’s something. It’s a squint of kindness—an effort—pinched as your classic bun, checking the boxes but is it really elegant? A pre-coffee tremble in your hand—and a different species of alertness as you grab for the latte and then—sprinkle of cinnamon, dash of nutmeg…I suppose that helps. You think I’m just the girl who serves up your coffee so you flinch as you catch me questioning what I see. We are the same. Except you’re the one with the money. Of course, it’s very important, for you: I love that. You see your spill as you turn away and I wipe it up; we have that kind of relationship.

I’ll write into it during a smoke break, when I can focus on us.

***

You remain unnoticed—trim curly hair, gray windbreaker, knees and white tennis shoes touching (keeping the world at bay), but it’s the texts unshielded on your thighs, a blue light emanating from the crisp fuscia of your scrubs, the rich dark hue of your finger, your pale nail as it scrolls. That gets me. Texts come in: buzz, buzz-buzz and me, leaning back, reading over your shoulder. Everyone needs something from you. It’s 7:48, or 49, when you look up at the corner sign like it surprises you, same way every day, and you rise up and pull the cord. “Your son is lucky to have you, lucky like someone who doesn’t know it,” I want to say but I can’t.

I’m a secret reader, stilted by shyness, better in the sneak.

***

Cocky, self conscious about still wearing yesterday’s shirt, and fiddling your collar over a stutter of a love bite. Tough guy with a soft spot under your ear, like a medal, B. S.’ing your way through an all-department presentation, riding on conquest. In this unprepared attempt, you peak my interest. Astounded, I look around the table for a tangle, and find it. Damn.

Not at all how I would have written it.

***

You’re a thick chunk of small words, not even simple prose, a sweating slab pumping it, looking for love. I’m repping 50’s and 60’s like they’re feathers; sadder than you by choice, same mirror. I shed tears without reservation: I’m a mammoth of a brute who spins out words for you, in my head, like a bestseller you could be.

That’s a book you’ll never read.

***

You might think I am up in your life, but I take any form, anywhere.

***