Coffee Hour

The light reflected from his eyes as he spoke.
I did not hear a word he said.
But pretended as though I was reading his lips.
Enveloped in one way conversation.
Twisting like two snakes around his body,
His hands told a story by far too familiar.
And so on the story goes,
Bending and fading
Grinding, burning, boring me to death.
Absence is my enemy,
And so his too.
I stay.
I watch.
His eyes.
His hands.
I tap my foot to the beat
Of non-existent music.
I chew on the nail
Of an already chewed finger.
His teeth are crooked.
His nose, a bit big.
His lips, too small.
I don’t want to kiss small lips.
His voice sings with knowledge
Knowledge of pirate ships and nuclear bombs.
I look up at the ceiling.
I envelope myself in my own silence.
When I look back at him
He stares at me
Looking deep within the reflection in my eye
Slowly I realize.
Suddenly I feel guilty.
The story had been over.

--Erinn Johnson