Lean a little closer now,
that’s it. Just so that our faces
are close enough that I can see
your eyelashes. Orange.

The table’s small, we’re barely
in the booth. Together at the end,
one on either side, long legs
stretch into the empty restaurant.

Our friend’s talk, and I lean in.  
You lean your head in too, to hear
the joke or story they’re telling. It’s
so familiar, but important somehow.  

Something’s said and we all laugh, normal routine.
You look at me, and I to you. Reactionary. Should we
—not anymore—yet still we do.

You’re wearing that gray shirt, the one that folds right
at the collarbone. I notice; I don’t mean to.
Your cheeks are white and smooth.

I’m wearing my blue jeans, the ones I that,
I know, are a bit too tight.
But I like that about them. I’d never admit it,
but I like the way they cling to me.

So lean in closer, I stay right there,
elbows perched, head turned. Long hair,
tucked behind my ears because
that’s how Mom made me wear it.

Comfortable, you touch my arm, but it’s measured out,
scaled down. You’re too careful now. Every word
a deliberate pace. It’s dangerous when two killers know,
the other’s preferred poison of taste.

But there are things you can’t control,
like when we’re sitting, at the booth’s end,
shoulder to shoulder, turned to our friends.

When we look, as look we always do,
I notice your seconds glance to my smile—
but it’s not my smile you’re looking to.

Saints have lips, and Holy Palmers too, I want to say,
but just for an instant, before I realize how
absurd it would be, quoting Shakespeare to you.

The check arrives and the bill is paid.
There’s no more time that glasses of water can buy.

The gang of us unfold from our little corner booth,
and out the door we go. Leaving behind us nothing
but crumpled napkins and  a salt shaker overturned.