When dating in NYC, singletons spend a lot of time in coffee shops, bars and bistros; these eateries become the backdrops and the food props in these mini-melodramas taking place between near-strangers. Below are a few soap-operatic moments that I extrapolated from stories I–uh–heard about from friends…
The Big Questions
When a forty-
two-year-old
very handsome
very smart boy, no,
man sitting opposite
you tells you
about his exwife
with the sober whiff
of full confession
morning after
coffee, dark
but doesn’t
mention the twenty-
threesome waif
he’s now with
a lot, like always
except last night
does he
begin to look
not so good?
Or is this
flattery
I’m failing
to hear?
Mussels
With his ruthless flair,
he used a mussel’s shell
as tongs to finish off another’s hell.
Implying they are designed
to kill their own kind
upset me as much as
his order to call his
“tenacious barnacle” of a wife
to have me tear her limb from life
armed with words
sharper than swords.
The most grotesque result
of my admission into cruelty’s cult?
my delight in his dare.
The Fifth Date Doggy Bag on a Sunday Morning
wakes up late cursing
his decorum-dictated absence
trips over the petulantly discarded
toe cleavage sandals and the eyelet halter dress
their flirty peek-a-boo-ness
turned tawdry in the harsh morning after light
en route to the fridge where
last night’s unconsummated dinner
awaits
the insatiable remains
exude the pungence
of fantasies unfulfilled
arousing voracity
crouching on her naked haunches
licking the plastic container clean of
the date’s bass and grilled asparagus
that have affected a mocking
froideur and flaccidity
reminiscent of the ridiculous waiter
disgusted with her feeble fingers
too craven to grasp the primal urge
hours ago when his long-craved flesh
was hard
and there
was no reason
not to
except all those “right” reasons
along the same lines as
don’t call because he hasn’t
said what to call him
deprived dog wimpers
for not getting any
If You Were Smart
If you were smart,
you’d learn your lines,
it’s pretty simple: when I, the ingénue,
(don’t question that casting call)
rush breathlessly into the bar 23
minutes late, feet blister welted from
the strappy heels you begged me to
buy, hobbled to an infuriating geisha gait,
you’re supposed to look up from your
paper, smile in a baritone as welcoming home
as Log Cabin on Sunday waffles,
“hey gorgeous, can I buy you a drink?”
but instead,
you pull this woe-is-me act,
receiving my kisses with a pointed
glower tap to your watch,
ignoring my new haircut,
interrogating me like a war crimes tribunal,
kvetching about how lame your day was
(and mine?!) in between ordering
another–bloody hell!–whine,
shining more light on your
ugly side, leaving me to
slake my thirst by exchanging gazes with
the gentleman who just walked in
on us, ready to cut in with his line,
“looking for someone special?”
looking like bona fide
leading man material
doubt it ever penetrated
your limelight-hogging skull
that without the right cues
you never motivated me to
uncross my legs in our scenes.
This looker got it right
the first night, all the way
to the back of his house
If you were smart, you’d realize
all the lines you missed.