Diane and Paul in the kitchenette

Diane and Paul in the kitchenette,

voices low. I walked in

and caught two words—the bridge, the Tuesday—

and then it all went thin:

the weather, the parking situation.

I said yeah. I poured.

I left them to each other.

Went back. Closed the door

of my attention. Or tried.

Two days. The bridge. The Tuesday.

Someone stood on it, or near.

That's what I walked in on. The way

their faces looked when I came in—

not guilty, more like they'd been

holding something. One of them said

the weather. I had seen

enough. I let it go.

Said yeah. Gave them back to each other.

Took my coffee. Walked away.

I don't know whether

I should have asked.