Evidence

April, four years gone.

A restaurant I can't place —

two plates half-eaten, a candle on

the table between us, her face

and mine, both smiling at the phone.

I've stared at this for twenty minutes.

Nothing comes back. I'm alone

with just the image and its limits:

the candle in a short glass holder,

the plates, her hair, the blurred edge

of a wine list on her shoulder.

I try to get back to the ledge

of the actual night — the smell of it,

the reason we were there,

what we ordered. The well of it

is dry. I zoom in. Her hair.

My smile. I zoom out.

The timestamp in the corner.

Four years and a season. Doubt

or something like it, warmer —

I put the phone face-down.

I pick it up.

She's still smiling.

I'm still there.