the feminist blues

there's something I need
to tell you, she says out loud
while you are having dinner
in a fine restaurant.
i'm a feminist, she says.
a what? you say, nibbling on
your trout and sipping
at an apple martini.
a communist? no problem
comrade. i can respect that.
no, no, no.
i'm a feminist, she says
again, taking off a high
heel and banging it on
the table like Nikita
Khrushchev. oh, right,
equal pay, and all that stuff.
yeah me too.
pass me the butter, please,
you ask, pointing at the butter
tin. can't you reach
that she says. I mean I
could get it for you,
but I think you can too.
okay. excuse my reach.
you lather a slice of bread
with some butter
and stare at her. she looks mad.
you try to think what you
might have done wrong today.
you avoided opening any doors
for her. you didn't buy her flowers.
you said nothing about her
not shaving her legs.
you never once said she looked
pretty. you did your best
to treat her like a man.
you let her make every decision
and walked behind her
as she perused the feminine
hygiene aisle. what could you
have done? are you mad at me
you say, finishing off the potatoes.
you seem mad. your face is red.
you want to say like a communist,
but you don't. her feminism
no longer includes a sense
of humor.
yes. i'm mad at you. you're a man,
aren't you. you think you
rule the world. you think women
are weak. you nod your head
in an understanding way,
thinking about dessert.
are we having dessert, you ask
her. may I suggest the flourless
chocolate cake? split it?
can't I have my own dessert?
oh, sure, sure. you slide
the menu over. she gets the key
lime pie and coffee. black.
like how a man drinks his coffee.
you think, but bite your tongue.
you finish in silence.
the waiter brings the bill out
and sets it on the table
between you. you both stare at
if for a moment or two,
and then she says. i'll be back
in a few minutes, I need to
powder my nose.