have you seen our waiter

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.