We were friends before I fell in love with him, and just in case you are curling your lips to accuse me of being a home-wrecker, I am only sitting in this dimly lit restaurant to rekindle our friendship. But as I wait, the warm, complimentary bread grows cold and hard, the Sprite I ordered for him flat, the ice cubes nearly melted into water. I wave for the waiter to bring my bill, and he guides a woman I’ve never met into the seat across from me, her large breasts sitting atop her protruding, round belly, perfectly visible in the form-fitting, black dress she is wearing. She places her left hand on the edge of the table, and the gold band on her ring finger tells me who she is, the side smirk on her face tells me he is not coming, and the drumming of her fingers on the wood tells me this impromptu reunion is over.
This prose poem is part of Stream of Consciousness Saturday This week’s prompt: acquaint and/or friend.
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