After years and years, he’d been widowed.
The bar was near and crowded. People, Others.
So he sat on a stool with a Cranberry and lime,
listening to the lines,
the number of numbers exchanged,
the numb frivolity,
but nothing changed,
the empty space still, inside.
Late,
a woman of a certain age sat two seats away,
engaged him in light conversation,
heard no lie in his voice,
felt a shared something.
She stood, said,”Dance with me.”
And later she said,
“Turn off the light so you cannot see my years,
nor I, yours. Only feel me and tears.”
And he did.
The next night, he sat on his stool
but she was not there, and it was all right.
The next night she was
and he came again and again.
And so did she.