That Wasn't Mine to Hear

I had both hands around the cup.

I wasn't trying to listen in —

the booth was close, the place was full,

and then her voice came through the din,

one sentence, clean and aimed like glass:

You always made me feel like a guess.

I looked down at the menu. Let it pass.

I didn't need to hear the rest.

The couple kept on talking low.

I kept my eyes down, kept my hands

around the warmth. Didn't want to know

the context. The unasked demands.

That sentence had a life of its own —

You always made me feel like a guess —

the kind that finds whatever bone

is waiting. Finds the right address.

I left a tip I couldn't really spare.

Walked out. The sentence came with me —

out to the lot, into the cold air,

the same wherever I happen to be.