Adhesion

I’m in the hallway because the light

in there is too much, too yellow, too loud.

I said I wanted water, but I'm just

counting the clicks of the fridge.

He did that thing—not a big thing—

but he caught the edge of the label

with a thumbnail and pulled it back,

one slow, wet tear of paper.

He handed it to her like a secret

and she took it, her mouth doing that

soft, upward tilt I haven't seen in months.

He’s still got the glue on his thumb,

a gray, tacky smudge that won't come off,

and I'm here holding a glass I'm not thirsty for.