you interrupt me just to point out how
this particular pair eat without speaking.
She, head downcast, attends to the task
of picking white fish from its springy bone.
He stabs at his food as if puncturing
the air between them. While you,
dissatisfied, almost hurt yourself
looking past me for explanations.
There's something wrong here, you say,
not to me but to the scene unfolding
mutely behind me, as if you should get up
and fix it. As if their not-talking
is something they have forgotten,
something they have left behind,
so you can call after them--
half-embararassed by your heroism--
and disrupt their do-not-disturb
alliance, while I sit appetite-less
reading the menu, like a page-turner.
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