It was a busy night with room only for small talk around the dark stained table. She sat in half shadow, as still as bambi after the gunshot and just as alone. And they talked.
At her finger tips her glass brooded, part full of a rich emptiness and part of potential, the combination reeking of a love unexplored with a whiff of harboured regret. They talked knee to knee and shoulder to shoulder, all smiles and pork scratchings.
She sat and left her past week buried like old sorrow, glad to listen to those with less to say while despair trickled down her left cheek, unnoticed. They talked, voices lost in the clamour of glasses and the void of wet laughter.
"You're quiet tonight, Silvi. Your Tom not around this week?"
"No, not this week."
She sat and they talked, knee to knee and miles apart.
This started as a short poem. Then when I came back to it it became more prose.