He leaned in asking something about spreadsheets

He leaned in, asking something about spreadsheets,

and there it was, a dark curve,

a single stray, clinging to his lapel.

Not an eyelash, no, but close enough,

a tiny filament of himself, adrift.

My hand, a sudden reflex,

almost rose, a ghost of an old gesture,

that soft, almost intimate swipe

to brush off a wish, or a fault.

But I kept it down.

It reminded me of her,

years ago, that bar light,

or maybe just the one streetlamp,

catching the fine, dark thread

on the pale skin of her cheekbone.

I saw it then, too.

Did I tell her? Did I flick it away?

I can't remember if the wish came true.