The glass is thick with exhaust and grease

The glass is thick with exhaust and grease,

a barrier between the cold and the steam.

I’m just a thumbprint on the outside

watching her slide the salt toward him.

It’s a small movement, practiced and flat,

the way you hand a weapon or a key.

She doesn’t look up to check the door.

She doesn't need to look for me.

The laminate is yellow under the bulb.

They share a silence that isn't heavy.

I’m standing in the draft of the bus

feeling my own blood get ready.