He sits by himself, at a cheap Italian place on Mulholland.
Loud opera music, cheap bread, and Chianti in its little straw suit.
After paying the bill, he finishes his decaf,
and takes one of the Crayons from the glass jar,
usually reserved for children.
He never liked it here, but she did, and it’s been so long
that he can’t retrieve her features with ease,
but across the white paper tablecloth, he begins.
A nose, her nose, a neck, her neck, and he strikes luck with
a reminiscent shape of her eye. Hair, loads of it, curly, messy,
and lots of wrinkles from laughter, sun, and laughter in the sun.
Cheeks high, and tight. A smile, her teeth, crooked,
chipped because of French bread in Bayonne.
He recognizes her, traces her jaw with his fingers.
He leaves the restaurant. He looks back through the window. She’s there,
Happy, perfect, even in a color called Wild Blue Yonder.
— MATHIEU CAILLER
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