First Impression

He gripped my hand before I'd said a word

and my ring cut into the finger beside it.

He smiled like he'd settled something.

I sat across from him for forty minutes,

my hand flat on my thigh under the table,

the dent still there—a small red crescent

I kept pressing with my thumb

without meaning to.

He asked about my greatest strength.

I said something.

He wrote something.

The pen clicked between questions.

I said thank you for your time.

He said we'll be in touch.

I've been in the parking lot for eleven minutes.

Engine off. The mark almost gone.

I keep pressing it anyway.