It's awful the way he stares at her
his gaze blank, empty, vacant.
She holds it up
and there is just no response.
He dabs crumbs with a finger wet with spit,
the crumbs hold his attention
in ways they don't deserve.
It's a shame really.
She doesn't pause.
In one fluid movement,
an extension of the initial,
she moves her body away and on and further
because she is compelled or familiar or rehearsed.
She sees things when cups clink,
Her smile is for no one but herself.
He is bored. Up and down out of a chair he doesn't need.
Why is he at the table?
Twist handle left, handle right.
He brings her a drink. She sips, but she can't see him.
They are ships.
She is holding a vision.
It is distorted, on the other side of the mirror.
She leans her head in closer. She tips it to the side.
She's sipping through a straw while pinching at another option.
The one no one else is patient enough to arrive at.
They whisper things she'll never hear,
not because they are hushed,
but because their voices don't travel through glass.
They think her poised hand odd.
They think her silence interruptable.
"It's the last album of the day, better make it count."
She's pinching, squinting, gripping,
making everything count.
If only she could borrow the time they don't want.
She needs more.