The Woman at the Restaurant

By Emily Zielinski

Today I am at a restaurant,
Alone
On a small Greek island,
No warmth besides the beer that rests calmly in my belly
And heavily on my mind.
I am seated at a far table overlooking the sea-
The wild ripples of the waves move in rhythm with my tainted senses
And at once I am one with the Mediterranean.
All the seats are empty,
Save my own
And another right across from me.
My eyes, although wobbly with intoxication, settle on her-
The woman at the restaurant. She is
Alone
As am I, and she looks upon the sea longingly
As if the sea was her lunch companion.
I study her, as if she were mine, and see myself.
I sober up instantly, becoming aware that what I am grasping
Is not trick of the beer, but of the universe,
Of fate.
She is older than me, but her jovial smile is familiar, soft,
And I can’t help but mirror the shape of her lips.
The gentle summer wind blows her dark brown waves off her shoulders
And while I don’t notice, my hair falls the same.
I don’t know her-
Not really, and yet I read her mind all the same-
Aren’t we both just two souls having an affair with the Mediterranean?
Didn’t she invite us both to sit with her, make love with her,
Until we blended into one?
I look away, but notice the woman turns to look at me instead.
I pause in cautious curiosity,
Not daring to meet her gaze.
She walks-no, floats, dances out of the restaurant,
Past me and further away from her lover.
I am left,
Alone
And in awe, in mastery of
The woman at the restaurant

(I finish my drink and float away)