Gravy and tomato soup overheard at the coffee shop

Everything you'll ever need.

Talking Gravy

There is conversation.

Well, small talk.

Me: making no direct

Eye contact.

You: probably wondering why.

We repeat empty, colorful details about our

Thanksgiving dinners—

While I fiddle with my dangling yellow earrings. They resemble

A turkey like a cloud might. Stuffing and all.

You say something witty about gravy but I just blink

And sip my coffee.

I mumble “sorry” and you stare. The sorry is for what I imagine,

Written above your eyebrows.

You: stare.

I laugh because that is the only option. You look serious

And continue talking gravy.

Can Whipped Cream Curdle too?

Chemistry homework on Saturday night after a

day of work. There is a waitress from—

I can’t remember the name of that restaurant—

sitting at the next table with a man telling a story

in a deep, quiet and enigmatic voice.

That restaurant serves creamy tomato soup,

probably cooked with

eight cups of half and half. It doesn’t seem to curdle although maybe

that happens later. Like in your gut.

Her head is tilted his way, lips pursed like a dollop of

whipped cream—maybe they serve that too. On top of

tiramisu or apple pie confined in air-tight double layered

plastic wrap and delivered in white crates.

“…buy a house…have some kids…” the context out of

conversation piles on,

lips spewing candy flirtation. A

fire truck and ambulance siren in the background. “…guess I’ll have to

start ten businesses…9 out of 10 fail.” The half and half

soup is distracting because scientific notation never equals

tomato.

The man shifts his coffee shop chair closer and he

can smell the wintergreen gum she is casually chewing between

pursing. Purse. Chew. Purse. Chew. She laughs and his words

purr like a gray wool sweater.

And I remember why I came to

the coffee shop without uttering a word to anyone besides

the barista.

Then I go home.