Our favourite restaurant
is covered in Persian rugs,
the lights are dim
and candles flicker in opaque balls
like pumpkins on Halloween.
We sit on cushions
at low tables made of slabs of lumber,
our hands finger the bark
like a tree’s memoir.
The room is narrow,
we sit across from another couple
too close not to smile.
It is intimate
but not private,
the flamenco dancers pound
carnal beats.
It is too ripe for small talk
so we are reckless
with questions
for this other couple,
and they do the same,
a volley of wondrous nerve.
They leave first
and they don’t look back.
It is always like this
at our favourite restaurant,
the relationships we make here
are like the food.
Delicious and temporary.
We will never see them again
but even if we did,
in the hard angles of the day,
we wouldn’t recognize them
and we would have nothing
to say.