A Death in the Metro Cafe

photo by Christine Sloan (c) 2003

Everything was gray.

Everything but her cream woolen coat
with the crazy red and orange plaid,
direct from the sixties
like her deep blue eyelids
and impossibly thick lashes.

One, two, three, four,
An old man in black
sat at the counter
fingering his pennies,
before slipping them
into his tattered pocket.

A grumpy waitress refilled
their cups, lukewarm at best.

Dry toast served with hard butter
or pre-packed packages of colored jelly,
waiting patiently
since time began
waiting to matter.

One, two, three,
the lump in his throat;
“You never take me seriously.”

In an imagined kitchen
far away, the crash of dishes
interrupts escaping hip hop.

One, two,
She lay her spoon down, and
sadistically turned
the glass sugar dispenser
upside down,
releasing onto
the laminated tabletop
a miniature ski slope
that somehow had been
captured inside.

The old man was gone,
though he had never noticed
him leave.

Her cherry red lips
pressed against
the green rim of the coffee cup.

One,
Her steel blue eyes
penetrated
his shrinking heart.

Outside the rain had begun
to fall,
again.

“Check, please.”

But no one was listening.