I’m working under the table.

Taking in the bubble gum.

Eight wads.

Four stuck together.

Four out by themselves.

Purple and pink.

One is red.

 

I am working here,

under the table. 

A tidy pair of female legs;

crossed at the ankles,

panty hose,

dark blue pointed heels.

 

A pair of pinstriped

neatly cuffed trousers

ending in a pair of brown slip-ons. 

 

His napkin has fallen to the floor. 

I don’t think he has noticed this yet. 

It fluttered down there like a

broken bird,

landing in a lopsided triangle. 

 

I am working under the table. 

A rusty knife is huddled up against the wall there,

stuck under the molding where

no vacuum or carpet cleaner

can dislodge it. 

 

Working under the table,

I hear voices above.  

 

“I didn’t mean it,” the man says.

“I didn’t mean it the way it sounded.”  

He is whispering through his teeth I think,

aiming for some emphasis.

 

There is silence in response,

The woman’s legs are no longer crossed at the ankles,

and her knees have risen slightly.  

 

I see the legs of the waiter stopping at the table. 

Adidas. 

 

“Is everything alright tonight?” he asks. 

 

“We’re ok,” the man responds.

 

“Can I get you anything?’ 

 

“Just go,” the man hisses.

 

The waiter goes.

 

Taking it up again the man pleads softly,

“I didn’t mean anything. 

Don’t do this.”

 

This is followed by a soft cry,

another bird? 

The mate to the fallen one? 

Yes, she flutters to the floor

touching the first

as the woman rises and leaves the table. 

 

Dark skirt.

Diamond bracelet.

Wedding ring glisten.

 

Under the table,

the man is motionless. 

 

Time passes.

 

I hear a steak knife

slowly leaking  through meat.