Adjacent Table

I was trying to read.

The couple in the booth next to mine

weren't loud—just close enough

that I caught it: I just don't think you mean it

when you say that.

Not angry.

The voice of someone

who has finished being angry

and moved on to something flatter.

I looked at my page.

Read the same sentence

four times.

The bread basket between them

was still full.

His hands flat on the table.

Her water glass

half-full and not moving.

He said something low.

I didn't catch it.

I wasn't trying to.

I already had enough.

The waitress came. They ordered.

I paid before they did

and on the way out

I looked back at their table—

the basket.

The bread still in it.

Whatever he said still

somewhere in the air between them.