Yes, I’m hungry, it’s late, we have to get some dinner.

We went to the place with the AM Gold music and the lazy waitresses.

“Chevy Van” was playing as we sat down in our booth

which was slightly damp from having been just cleaned.

I smelled lavender, lavender everywhere. It smelled a bit like France.

Before we left the house

I had sprayed myself with Elizabeth Arden, all over.

A wife should always smell good for her husband.

You ordered what you always order.

I declared that I was on a diet, and did, too.

The service was slow and the lights were too bright.

The waitress forgot your Tabasco.

I scraped the cloying brown mystery sauce from my egg-white omelette

and we talked of nothing and everything.

I needed more iced tea and our waitress was nowhere.

Isn’t that always the way, I thought, and I shut my eyes.

“Lotta Love” came on the sound system.

I told you for the forty-seventh time that Nicolette Larson is dead.

“Do you want some dessert,” you asked, flipping the pages of pies and desserts.

You already knew my answer.

When the lazy waitress came to our table to clear our dishes

and to ask us if there would be anything else,

I mouthed the words “a slice of rhubarb pie” as you said them.

She nodded, scribbled, and turned to me.

Peach pie with ice cream, you said, and a cup of coffee.

She takes her coffee black,

And be sure to warm up the pie.

She likes it that way the best, you said.

I looked up from my napkin and my eyes met yours.

Your nose crinkled in that funny way.

“Reminiscing” came on the sound system.

Writer, wife, cat mother. I know too much about Jonestown and the Nixon presidency. I love red lipstick and The Beatles. Neurodivergent. I could live on sushi.