“Another water,” she says, and lifts a glasswith three speared olives turningWe’re in the smoking section, a booth in the back.My chin barely clears the edge of the table wherea bowl of leathery, cold French onion soupbuoys a raft of burnt cheese, still untouched.We don’t say much. My pocket’s heavy with tokensI didn’t get to use at Dream Machine.Her water arrives. Later, I’ll tell my parentsthat she had four. And when she packs her bagsfor the earlier train, I’ll ask but won’t learn why.I part a sea of ketchup with some fries.She checks her makeup in a butter knife,empties the glass, and leads us to the exit.The mall’s light widens like a second dawn.Two decades since it closed. Since she’s been gone.
Lunch at Poor Richard’s
Mar 01, 2023
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