i can’t look at you when you can’t talk to me,
so i gaze out the window of this first floor café.
a squirrel munches on an orange flower for it’s lunch,
sparrows play hide and seek in the vines that traverse the lawn,
people filter in and out.
a gentleman in a tweed jacket smokes his cigarette,
after two more, he opens the door and warmth escapes the room.
you’re picking out tomatoes from your salad,
my fork and spoon lay untouched.
i pick up my knife and cut the cutlet i ordered in two,
put the half on your plate,
and muster up the courage to say, “I need a break.”
you look relieved but don’t say a word.
I’m the spectator in this story, sitting in the corner with a cup of coffee. I tried to narrate what the person was witnessing in that state of mind via metaphors and subtle signs she was picking up in the room as she asked for what she wanted.