Dear X,
Let's meet for lunch someday, in the shadow-cool
interior of a smoking section restaurant sometime
in June. Tête-à-têtes were clearly meant for
June. I'll be the one in the simple black
dress, one of hundred's I'm sure. But I'll
wear the garnet necklace you gave me and
a tiny silver drop on each ear. You, I know,
will be the one handling the cigarette
wand the way a sophisticated four-year-old wields a pacifier. Let's sit in a booth by a
window, somewhere private, and sip white wine.
Something steely and a little bit furtive.
Something that reminds you of the amount of
time you're using just being here. You will
brush my palm with your napkin as
you unfold it, perhaps the toe of your
shoe will just brush against my sedate
leather heel as we settle into our places.
Perhaps the rest of the restaurant will suddenly
fall into the ocean and you will feed me
bits of sorbet from a small steel
teaspoon. I will let the lacquer handle
of my fan click against the heel of
your hand as I set it down.
Your's Always,
Shana Maydela