I Lost My Appetite

No words have been spoken,
since the waiter left our table,
but among the din of
forks and knives clattering against plates
and the silence between,
an entire conversation ensues.
Her foot whispers to my ankle,
asking it to pass along a message to my hand
so it would sneak under the table to return the favor.
She must be drowsy;
her eyelashes keep fluttering, and
she leans into her hand, gazing at me,
dream-like, as when I first met her years ago.
The sauce from her pasta must be sticking to her lips,
for she licks them every so often,
so I hand her a napkin,
not looking her back in the eye.
She tugs her neckline downward, her face aflush.
The candles are giving off too much heat,
so I douse them with my spoon.
The air reeks of burnt wax.
I need some fresh air,
so I drop my napkin onto my plate and
leave my wife alone.