He Didn't Look at Me Once

He was telling it to the dinner table —

building, pleased, working toward the end.

I recognized it by the third sentence:

the night I'd told him about, my friend,

my low point, the specific year.

He had the details. Got them right.

He didn't tell it as mine.

He told it like a good night

story — funny, once-removed, belonging

to no one in particular. The room laughed.

I laughed at the right moment.

He still hadn't looked. I watched his face, half-

lit by the candles, warm, turned outward.

I held my wine glass. I did my part.

There was dessert. I talked to people.

Two days now and I keep the start

of it — his face right before the punchline,

animated, pleased, not looking my way.

He doesn't know he did it.

That's the part I don't know what to say

about. Not the giving away.

The laughter. And how I helped with that.