What I Kept

She was describing the light in her new apartment—

how it hits the east wall at four in the afternoon,

how she'd bought a plant specifically for it.

A fiddle-leaf something.

I was nodding. I had soup.

There was an eyelash on her cheekbone.

Pale, curved slightly upward, sitting

against her face like punctuation

while she told me the guy she's seeing is fine.

Fine, she said. He's fine.

I kept waiting for a pause

long enough to fit it in.

She talked about her commute.

The eyelash stayed.

We split the bill in half

even though I'd had the soup

and she'd had the salad.

That's what we do now.

She hugged me in the parking lot.

I thought: say it now.

She was already at her car.

Two days later I'm still thinking

about the eyelash, not the conversation.

Which is probably