Investment, Not Gamble

The diner hummed, a low greasy buzz.

My coffee, just a shade past lukewarm,

and then her voice, cutting through the steam.

"He told me it was an investment," she said,

leaning in, her hair a little too yellow,

"not a gamble."

The last word, a small stone,

dropped into the silence she left behind.

It broke, a little,

her voice, I mean.

And all the story was there,

between the clatter of plates,

the splash of a refilled glass.

My own cup, half-finished,

the rising vapor blurring

the worried ghosts

at her table. I didn't want

to see them, but they were there.

A mouthful of cold coffee,

and a mouthful of someone else's life.