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The cigarette smoke curled from dying embers in the overflowing ashtray.
Familiar aromas of fresh brews permeated the coffee shop walls.
We sat at a rickety wooden table centered in a tight booth.

Long brown hair hung lazily over the right side of her face.
Her head hung down as she stared into her cup of coffee.
Her left forefinger rubbed the cup's rim nervously,
     while the diamond on her ring finger sparkled in the low light.

"I don't know what to do," she said.
"I've done everything I can to make him happy."
And she rattled off the resume of a good wife.
"But he just doesn't care."

I took a sip of coffee and listened.
That's all she needed was someone to listen.
She had cried out in silent pain too often.
     And nobody ever heard.
So I nodded my head and soaked in her emotions,
     while I drifted to my own feelings.

"Are you listening?" she asked angrily.
"You're just like him. You don't care."
"What am I going to do?" she asked.
"I've done everything I can."

"There's only one thing left for you to do," I said.
"Leave him."

"I love him," she said.
"I love him."
"But fuck him."

She took a long look at herself in the tiny mirror she pulled from her handbag.
And I took a long look at myself in my reflection in the black coffee.

I love her, I thought.
I love her.
But fuck her.

And there was only one thing left for me to do.
I threw some money on the table,
     and walked out the door.

Copyright 2003 Keith Gery