I wish you hadn’t asked me
about the weather
or my profession
or what I'd order — the pasta — same as you.

You won’t remember my name.
I won’t remember yours.

I wish you had asked me
about the first time
or my most embarrassing moment
or told me a **** story.

What stopped you?
What stopped me?

One take, that’s all I took
of you and your happy teeth
under that silly nose
only your face could get away with.

You could get away with anything.
We kept our elbows off the armrest.

I wish we’d skipped the pasta
ordered a big juicy bottle of Bordeaux
and made out like mad
under the skimpy blanket.

Maybe then I’d remember your name.