she's thinking about something.
the way
she fiddles with her
fork,
moving food around
on her plate,
tapping
the spoon against her
cup.
she keeps looking
down at
the fish gone cold.
the curl
of her salad
now dry.
i'm almost finished
chewing
the last bite of bread,
swallowing the last pour
of wine.
what, i ask her.
what?
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