Slender young woman in a dress white and romantic like an orchid.
She holds herself small, close, despite her long brown sugar limbs.
Her shoes and her purse, her softness and her scent are pricy, but not impossible.
Next to the girls waiting tables, eyes searching to satisfy, hair a sweet frazzle, coming undone,
What is she to the clever food critic watching her leave the room?
Her femininity seems careful, her self still more her own than a warm mother’s soul would be.
Perhaps she seems like all things womanly yet with no obligations.
He closes the cap on his pen with a crisp snap,
Long moments after she has left only her perfume to remind us of her.
His thoughts are his own and only I imagine they are of her.
Still, with a girl who carries her whole life in a big elegant purse on her ribs,
A man must think it would be easy, light.
He’d just move on after, simple, carrying merely his own weight into tomorrow.