The conversation stands tall
practicing its opening line while
awkward fingers fuss with a
black bow tie.
Panic. How should he
knock.
Too soft and she may not hear
or worse, she may think him
timid or frail.
He falters.
Fearfully he pounds the door like a
tympani drum.
The hinge creeks and she appears.
She looks at the door and then
at him.
The conversation limps to the car.
Opening her door he,
knocks her nose with his elbow and
they both spend the first hour of
darkness searching
for her left eye's contact.
The conversation crawls
into the car and-
listens to the sigh of a half blind
woman fastening her seat belt.
A quiet drive later, and
the conversation gets out to open
the car door, but
she declines the offer and shuts
her own dress in the car hinge
--ripping it as she walks
to the restaurant.
Without thinking the conversation
laughs.
It spends the rest of the evening
hiding behind the
olive in its martini.

05/31/2003

Posted on 05/31/2003
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