Table Nine

I sat with people I had never met.

The bride and I had shared a break room, two years.

She waved from the head table. I waved back.

The first toast was her father's—short and clear.

The second was a college friend's. It ran

past where it should have stopped. The woman next

to me cried quietly into her napkin,

shoulders going soft. I sat perplexed—

no, not perplexed. Just empty. Waiting.

The candle burned down almost to the base.

The bread roll at my side plate sat half-torn.

Applause. I clapped. I smiled at the right place.

I drove home after. Sat out in the car.

I tried to find what she'd been crying for.

The woman at my table. I don't know her.

I don't know what that feeling is anymore.