Booth Four

The vinyl is cracked and the coffee is thin.

I’m trying to focus on the news on my phone,

but the woman behind me is tired of him,

and her voice has a sharp, jagged tone.

'I never actually liked how you say my name,'

she says, and the words hit the floor like a weight.

The air in the diner is never the same

when a heart starts to close like a gate.

I look at her table as I stand up to pay—

a half-eaten piece of dry toast on a plate.

He’s staring at nothing, with nothing to say,

and it’s already becoming too late.