The Gap at the Table

My fork catches the light and I see

myself in the window—mid-bite, mouth open,

a person alone, doing a solitary thing.

At the next table a couple's hands meet

over coffee cups. Two plates, two spoons,

the easy choreography of people who planned

to sit together.

I keep chewing because the fork is in my hand,

because the food is on my plate,

because I'm visible and singular

at eight in the morning on a Tuesday.

The window reflects me back:

a woman eating. Just eating.

No conversation, no reaching,

no one's eyes to break the silence.

The couple leaves. Another pair arrives.

I watch them watch each other watch their coffee cool.

I'm the only solo thing here.

The window won't let me pretend otherwise.

My fork scrapes the plate.

The sound is small and loud.

I'm the only one listening to it.