Girls Lunch

the pulse in my forehead makes my sunhat

flinch

so I know I’ve had too much fizz – most
of the lunch money has downed itself,
drowned itself, found itself in the dregs
of cheap bottles and the bistro’s
artfully rusting terrace walls shout
at my face in plant-pot orange

a keen keen very keen waitress
is very keen to help us line our stomachs
with frondy plates of perfect pea shoots

She tells us that the chef is very particular.
He places
each
pea
shoot
with
tweezers
onto dishes that have no edges …

but the foamy minty apple juiciness
that he’s coated it all in
threatens
to make a run for the table

seep into its scrubbed wood and

fester

in the cracks

where the cleaning spritz can’t reach

i look into the cracks to check and

there

right there

is a gathering of croissant crumbs
left
probably
by mummies in their active wear
or
by sunken-eyed office workers with extra
holes in their belts, sweltering over an
artisanal coffee with chocolate chip biscotti
that comes from actual Italy don’t you know

my derisive snort draws eyes
a side eye
a subtle eye
a gentle pry
and

the pulse in my forehead makes my sunhat

flinch

so I know I’ve had too much fizz

 

6 thoughts on “Girls Lunch

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