A cramped corner table.
We wriggle in, our coats steaming from the cold.
My shivering knee borrows your warmth.
We sit close enough to dream.
Thoughts grasp your muscles before you speak.
It’s been so long, so long.
A slim waiter in black attends,
His movements swift and seamless
Like that magician we saw, that time.
An alphabet of aromas…cardamom, cumin, caramel…
Not yet, but soon.
Two women behind us,
One in sober blue, the other defiant pink.
Their ironic chuckles and tender complaints reach us:
A rained-out trip south, a pompous son-in-law, a menu favourite found.
Old friends.
A small window to the left.
Ice pellets hit the thinning glass…tith, tith, tith.
To hear them is not to feel them.
To hear them is to absorb their externality.
We are like fossils, sealed in,
Soothed, buoyed, glowing, half-filled, unrepentant…
You reach for my hand, breaking the spell.
Come, My Love. It’s time to go.
Cate Davis lives in Toronto.
No comments:
Post a Comment