Late summer sprinkled gold all over our table.
I watched your eyes dance with drink and stories of boudoir conquests. An ex-soldier’s stories. Coarse and lustful. Girls in lacy garter-belts and high heels. Tits to die for. Oh what a good life that was!
Then some travelling, some studying, and a child in a distant city … life still good. Silver just peppered your temples.
Afternoon’s shadows lengthened the pavement under late commuters.
I tried to hear you over the café’s noises, wishing all the time we would just leave to sit under the tree in the garden. And talk about our children in distant cities and wars we have seen.
Instead we laughed over the spilled drink and pretend not to notice each other’s emptiness.
You wished I would wear lacy lingerie and high heels.
I wished you would take my hand and let me rest inside your chest.
We parted still laughing the obligatory laugh of newly acquainted.
That night I walked to the old Jewish cemetery and cried for us both.
For what we might have had,
If we were not two old ex-soldiers.