Alone,
dining is a form of liberation.
I welcome the waiter
with the picket fence smile. Gallant questions
no match for the pleasantness of his own voice.
My hands fold,
defeated,
over the complacent menu.
He peers expectantly over my shoulder,
but it’s your eyes reflected in my glass-
Familiar feigned interest and the impatient
twitch of your lips. I choke
down the battered façade of chivalry.
I tip you
off that your favors are futile. Your confidence
more mediocre than any meal I’ve tasted.
I dab at the corners of my mouth, politely
hiding my distaste. Service is no more
generosity than options are freedom. I slide
my chair back
and walk out-
Alone.