I said it the way you say things

I said it the way you say things

when you've stopped listening to yourself —

not mean, just careless, the way a door

swings shut before you remember

someone's still in the room.

She laughed. The way you laugh

when you're deciding not to make it a thing.

Then quiet. The rest of the dinner

she was somewhere behind her own face

and I kept talking, kept filling it in,

which made it worse.

Which I knew made it worse.

Driving home I left the radio off.

Both hands on the wheel. The highway

unreeling in the headlights.

I went over it eight, nine, ten times —

the exact words, the way she moved

her fork to the other side of her plate

right after.

Nobody corrected me.

That's the part I can't put down.

That everyone just let it

sit there between the cake and the coats

and we all went home full.