Tu y Yo

Tu y Yo. You and Me. Ironic choice
of the cafe to meet in.
Today.
I would have thought
it cute on another day
A local bar run by José,
a man from the barrio.
I welcome the familiar dank smell
that permeates the walls. Abañiles
sit in a row of stools, eyes upwards 

on the giant intrusion blaring the 8 o’clock news,
their curls of smoke fade into
nothingness. Sipping carajillos, coffee laced
with whiskey. It gives them courage
to face the day.
I’ll have what they’re having, José.

He says he needs to talk; to tell me something
The words soar like bats in my head
twisting and turning, hoping for
an escape while I sit waiting in a dark
corner table near the bathroom.
We sit in the shadows
of places off the beaten track.
He’s late as usual.
It’s normal. Normal is good. Today.
Normal is what we/they all need.
Another carrajillo, José.

Bursting in worn and
ragged, wearing a Barbour
in need of wax
Greasy strips of dark hair
Frame a foreign stark face
Sunken eyes with dark halfmoons
hang under each wet pool
Leaning in to kiss me, his lips dry,
cold, chill me to the core. His odor alien,

The news cannot be good—he’s dying of cancer,
his house has burnt to the ground,
he has lost all of his money.
He orders a double Jack. Straight up.

The news cannot be good.
He is being transferred to the other side
of the world, someone else has died,
he lost his job.

He sits silent. I struggle out of my
coat, smothering me. I yank off my
scarf, choking me.
Agony crawls up the
walls of my stomach and pauses
when reaching my throat.

I watch as a single tear rolls
down his check and weeps
into his whiskey. I stare down
at the hands trembling in my lap. My
hands. A leather covered button
on my grey wool skirt hangs. Loose. I tug
at it, the thread strong but slack.
I twist the strands around and around
my finger until it throbs and turns
a shade of purple. I rip it off leaving
a glaring void and when at last
I raise my head,
he is gone.
Without a word.
The news could not have been good.