the roast beef sandwich

i don't understand men, she told me.
brushing her hair
in the hall mirror
after we had made love.

she seemed at times to forget
that I was a man,
and talked
to me
as if I might be something else.
not a woman,
exactly, but
something else.

she's always in a hurry,
even when arriving.

there was a tenseness about her, as
if she was unable to
remember something important,
or where she may
have put something, like her
keys, or her wedding rings,

or her ever buzzing phone,
politely set for vibrate during
her visit.

where to now, I asked her.
standing in the kitchen making
a sandwich.

hungry?
I could hear the spray of perfume
and the clinking
of things in her purse
as she searched for lipstick
and rouge.

I could eat a horse, she said.
sorry,
no horse, but I could make you a sandwich
or something.

no, no. i'll grab something on
the way home.
I have to stop off at the church
and drop off some canned goods.

my husband is a deacon there now,
did I tell you that?
she peeked around the corner
as I put some roast beef onto a slice
of white bread
and then layered it with mustard.

I set two pickles on the dish, then

found the bottle of milk in the fridge.

no. I said. a deacon?  yes. he's very
involved with the church this year.
he wants me to join the choir.
he says I have a wonderful voice.

you do have a lovely voice. I said,
taking a first bite into the soft bread.
tasting the tang of the brown mustard.

do you think so?  she came into the kitchen.
how do I look?
I looked at her and nodded. wonderful.
no worse for wear.

she looked at her watch then came
over to gently brush her cheek against
mine.

have to go love, she said. be good.
see you in a week or so.

we're travelling up to New York to see
his family. so we won't be able to talk.

but i'll try to text you from the bathroom

at some point, or

when I take the dog for a walk.

okay. I said. pouring a glass
of milk. i'll be here. don't forget to put

your rings back on.