First Date

Dark bar. Classy music.

Candles warming the wine 

stems. My one good shirt.

It wasn’t going well.

We’d done work,

hobbies, movies, fam.

Parents alive and married,

group texts with her ex’s mom. 

If there was trauma to milk 

she’d already processed 

or else buried it deep.

I tipped back the glass

and finished the drink.

If I caught the next train

I’d still have time 

for Fleabag and a wank.

She glanced across the gap

between us, suddenly

inspired: “Are you a glass

half-empty kinda guy?

Or more the half-full kind?” 

A valiant effort, to be sure.

I stared at my bent

reflection in the bowl

and finally told the truth: 

My glass is completely empty.

I drank it off when I was young.

Now I do my best

to keep my head 

up among the lees.

The bartender sauntered,

bottle cocked: care for

another? I watched my date

glance at my glass, hesitate.

“Why not? We’re not getting any

younger.” Her glass was still 

half-full of white. We watched 

the burgundy bleed

through it: wisping, 

embryonic, beading

across the brim, 

then running over,

soaking her hand,

the bar, both 

of our laps

with the same,

evaporative drug.