The door all of a sudden opens
and my memory is jolted.
It is you coming in—
into this familiar restaurant
where we have often hidden
our fond dinners.
I stop listening to my friends.
As a dodge, I light
my cigarette.
I know very well that you spotted me
and now I do not dare
to look your way.
The girl who is on your arm
is fifteen years younger than you.
That must reassure you.
I remember that you laughed
when I said that regrets
have a tough skin.
A little embarrassed, you acknowledge me
and ask for the menu
in a quiet voice.
We who have shared everything—
here we are at separate tables,
each in our own space.
I watch you stealthily.
You have not changed much
with women.
You do not have to do much
when you go out with your paramore—
you cast a spell with your charm.
And I believed myself inoculated.
I had even imagined
this close encounter.
My friends are singing and acting mad.
How do I tell them that I do not care—
that I am jaded?
When love is written in the past
I still have to get rid of it.
Nothing but two separate tables.