Lights were on,
you were home.

His car,
watermelon green
boot static in front,
lit up as treasure
beneath a streetlamp globe.

Snow pinched
windshield,
fingers numb,
gloves with pentagonal
holes 'round the wrist.

Got out,
cold hit me
like the train squealing up
at Canal Street
near 2AM.

That's where
you found out
who I was.

I thought you were
another twenty-something
from Greenwich Village,
discount hairband
and a wrong shade
of eye-shadow.

Eighteen months later,
I can't even remember
what colour your eyes are.

Knocked the door,
a reckless mistake.

Heard a murmur,
rowdy thump down stairs,
a ****** of glasses
(wine? Surprise.)

It had been a while.

You were expecting me.