Arm's Length

He held the menu out.

Then farther.

Small adjustments—the way you turn

a radio dial past the station

and back, trying to find

the clean signal.

The overhead light caught

the laminated edge.

His hands steady.

His face doing the work

of not showing the work.

He said: what's the pasta one.

Not a question exactly.

More like asking for the time.

I read it.

Read the next one.

Went through the whole left column.

He said okay, probably the chicken.

The waiter came.

I ordered the chicken too,

even though I didn't want it.

My mother was talking about something.

I was watching his hands

fold the menu closed,

push it to the edge of the table

like it had been the menu's fault.

I didn't say anything.

He didn't say anything.

The bread came

and we were both grateful

for something to do with our hands.