She's Across the Table

He's a force of nature
Barely contained by black leather and
Dripping in just enough detached
Apathy for everything she's saying.
He speaks calmly,
Flatly,
With the slightest curl of a
Sideways smirk.
On measured beats he barks
Some joke or sass and they always
Laugh
And laugh and he
Takes another ever so slight sip.

They leave together and he
Leads her around in the cool
Evening air as he bellows enough
Steamed words about something that
Burns in him as
He decides
When and where the encounter
Will end.

He doesn't,
Sit in the corner
Slouched and staring anxiously
Into the amber of his single malt.
There is no squeaking
Uneven and awkward interuption.
No injection of deadening awkward
Jokes that are far
Far too obscure for any sort of
Good taste.

But he does laugh,
He always laughs,
Even when he's the only one
Who does.

Then inevitably he,
Takes another sip,
Sniffs,
Shoots and
Sighs.
So subltly looks up to see
If anyone noticed.
Waves down the waitress and
Orders another because
When the world spins,
And the words slur
He is finally excused from speaking.