local calamari

you don't seem like
the marrying type
she says to you on
your first date.
why do you say that,
you ask, sorting
through a soggy
plate of calamari
looking for one
crispy one to dip
into a red sauce
neatly spooned into
a paper cup.
oh, you just seem
determined to remain
a bachelor. I wonder
if this is local
calamari, you say,
hoping she gets
the joke. she doesn't.
would you ever want
to meet my parents, she
says, now squinting
painfully at you
over the edge of her
wine glass.
you still have parents?
you say, motioning
to the waiter
for another napkin,
having dripped
red sauce onto your
rumpled shirt that
you didn't have time
to iron.
yes, she says. both
my parents are still
alive and doing quite
well. they live
in florida.
and you? your parents?
I don't know, you say.
I was raised by
wolves, so I've lost
contact with them
once I wandered out
of the woods.
you know what, she
says. I don't think
this is going to work
out between us. perhaps
I should go.
okay, you say. stay
in the left lane
out to the highway,
it's a sharp turn,
and it's easy to miss,
then you'll be heading
south, you don't want
that to happen.
it's been a pleasure
to meet you
finally.