Believe

‘I’m a smoker now’ he says.

Weren’t you always? I think.

He’s rolling cigarettes like a professional. How many days and weeks and months has he watched her roll them, to learn how to do it himself? When she’s not there? Later, he steps away from the table to make a phone call. He strolls outside and finds a quiet spot, his head dipped, his shoulders hunched over. He was always unapologetically private. His privacy looks intimate now.  I see him standing there in his quiet place and I imagine him exchanging quiet words to his silent lover.  Still later, I feel his energy. He is calmer now. He drinks his beers slower. His eyes are no longer arrogant; they’re comfortable like he has found a place to sit still for awhile.

I am softer still; so soft that I could crumble any second.

I take my leave. I’ve stayed too long. I walk, shoulders back, to my car. My chin defiantly raised to the sky. When I reach home, I smoke my last cigarette and nod.

I don’t want him, despite the betrayal of my beating heart.

I want what he has.

I want to believe in love again.