tomato soup

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Swing music dancing in and out of their silence,
they arranged themselves in a plush, oversized booth.
He touched a menu, she stared into thin air.
The waitress, pretty, but not too much,
floated to their table like a dust mite,
blowing around without care, smiled
as he fumbled over what to order…
(Ceaser salad, and what’s eggplant? Never mind, just
the chicken parmesan. With an order of breadsticks
maybe a glass of wine, wait, do you want to split the
breadsticks…?)
She stared blankly into the fear in his eyes
And all she wanted was some tomato soup.

She braced herself as the waitress floated off,
dancing in and out of conversations
and around tables and chairs
until he took a breath and their eyes locked.
The whole restaurant, the whole world
was gone in an instant, only the two of them
in their plush, oversized cove,
until he sighed and said her name.
         Really, all she wanted was some tomato soup.

He was talking quickly, it didn’t make much sense.
It was mostly noise about the
crash, her parents, both of them, dad had lasted
longer than mom, her death was painless, he came
to find her as soon as he heard….
He was tearing up as he kept talking, kept talking,
        kept up his damn talking like it was helping anything.
And where was the waitress?
And why was she dancing around the dining room
to some song with Italian words and
annoying chords and why couldn’t she hear
anything anymore?
What does that dancing waitress know
about rainy days and heartaches,
bad breakups and broken bones, and mom
         always making tomato soup when nothing else would help.

He was still talking, still going on
and on, his words like daggers
he mistook for prescription pills.
She held her breath, waiting for him to
stop    talking and for the waitress to
stop   dancing and the room to
stop    spinning. But she knew nothing would help


         except some tomato soup.

Created: Jul 27, 2010

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