why so sad

“Why so sad?” she asks,
all false guile and beleaguered innocence. 
“It’s for the best.” 

Could it be possible
– who could be that dumb – that
she does not know? 

A glimpse behind the façade,
a bright glint in her eye,
of anger and world-weary resignation,
says otherwise.  She knew exactly

what we had done.  Destroying it might be
the only pleasure –
that’s her fourth vodka-tonic –
she has left. 

Here she is acting as if her careless
– or calculated –
words had not trampled

Upon these unrealistic
expectations.  It does not
hurt as much as she thinks. 

The smile she wears – blank but
strangely menacing – is practiced. 

He was the one
spouting the usual nonsense,
and how remarkably effective,
about ‘separation’
and being ‘misunderstood’. 

Argue with him. 
All I did
was say yes.

She calls out to the bartender,
“Another round.” 
The words are mildly slurred but
not as much as I would think
for drink six.  She has 

An impressive tolerance
for one so small
in mind and stature. 

Downing that one and motioning
for the next her smiles are
lopsided now, fraying at the edges,
“Not the first, not the last.” 

Sipping now instead of 
chugging, she continues. 
“I’m the only constant.’” 

Pride
– something a lot like shame –
reverberates
in that statement. 

Moving slowly, the mild tremor
in her hands from exhaustion
or drink, she adds,
“Do you understand?”

Her shaky hand riding
the inseam of my trousers.

A nod.  Message received. 
 
“Good.  Enjoy your drink.”  On a napkin
soiled with lipstick
– perfect, pouty red –
is her number. 

A last
desperate
empty gesture

trying to beat him at his own game.