boredom sets in as she picks
cherry tomatoes
from her bed
of salad. i finish one drink, then
ask for another tall
glass of gin.
i'm a chef she says, when
i'm not advising others on financial
matters,
and these tomatoes are old.
i'm an accomplished cook
and these won't do.
she asks the waiter to bring
her fresh tomatoes, not these.
and could they skin them,
please.
she's in the middle of writing
a book, a script, a play,
a poem, an email, and now
a text as she stares deeply into
her phone and throws
back her hair
and says, oh that's funny.
she tells me the college she
attended forty five years ago.
who she knows, where's she's
been and with whom
and how she's traveled, never
bus, mind you. tuscany comes
up in the conversation, and tells
me the correct pronunciation
of gnocchi.
she asks me where i want to
be in five years, and i mumble
anywhere but here.
to which she says, did you
say something? you shouldn't
talk with your mouth full.
i like to chew thirty two times,
once for each tooth.
she goes on and on, telling
me that living in her car
is only temporary. that she's
in transition. do you take vitamins?
she asks, supplements?
i'd be lost without them.
so, she says, digging around in
her salad, tell me something
interesting about you. something
that will make me want to see
you again?
have you seen our waiter, i
need to talk to him about this
lettuce.
