Anniversary

They walked into the bar and ordered.

Water with lemon. A double gin.

Just gin, he said, as she scowled.

It was in honor of nineteen years without it.

She still scowled, but let the lemon touch

Her full lips, and the water slid

Past her neck. The secret, he said,

Was to never let the fumes reach

One's nose. Once that happens, if

It ever does, the world is going

To secrete tears, which is something

An old drunk might say. From the corner

Of his good eye, he noticed

A woman sitting alone at a booth.

Out of the slightly usable bad eye,

He watched his wife again,

The one he continued to call girl,

In spite of these awful modern times.

He touched her thigh, because

That is what a man does in such films.

The gin began to whisper—a kind

Quiver of what’s to come. The crowd

Seemed happy. Should he breathe,

And let the nineteen years evaporate?

Perhaps, lean left and kiss her;

Drink in the things that mattered. He

Motioned the angry bartender

To fill another one, and place it

Alongside the first. Another water

And lemon for the lady, too.

He caught himself with that one.

Tonight, and for the rest of his

Animated, sorry life there would be

Some important thinking to do.

He breathed it in and looked away.