Jennifer Lee Novotney

Dinner for Two

 

We went out to dinner

just the two of us.

You wore a buttoned-down shirt

with a collar that framed your freshly

shaven face. I, in a dress & heels,

tired, shivering a bit from the cool air.

How many dinners have we had

like this one? The memory of them fades

like a replica, a watermark in a book that

wanes with each page until barely perceptible.

We were happy once. Maybe we’re happy now

thirteen years later. What will it be like

in another decade or two? Will we still be sitting

across from one another quietly searching for

conversation, holding hands out of habit

rather than desire.

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