Lauren Linkowski
The Last Good Day
I didn’t realize it was that day,
our reservation. 3 Star Michelin, made way back
when the future still existed.
I am in my practical raincoat, weak at the knees
corduroys, a shoddy men’s t-shirt hanging
on my shoulders like fog.
I wait by the polished baby grand, idling
my fingers over the keys with no purpose,
savoring the luxury of making sound without a song.
You arrive, throw your Burberry coat over me
like a half finished painting. You look like shit.
We run to Bloomingdale’s. You hold shadows
of black dresses against my body until one fits.
You zip me up, have nude heels in my size ready
at the register. You rifle through my purse searching
for the mints and hand cream you like to borrow.
I sample everything at the makeup counter:
wand loaded with mascara, three shades of foundation
on my wrist, lip gloss, a spritz of Tom Ford
that smells like our trip to Granada at Christmas.
Orange trees. Sherry. Woodsmoke and tobacco.
Cinnamon cookies sold by cloistered nuns.
It’s for men, you say and I say then you take some too.
At dinner, we settle on the same side of the table.
We listen to the couple next to us and pretend
they cannot hear us gossip. Before you ask
I hand over my cocktail, sunny with Aperol.
You feed me a razor clam from your fork.
There is a tank of unblinking fish
who have no clue what is coming.
Outside the windows, the sky darkens.
We pass your Metrocard between us and cram in
to the crowded subway car. The pole is sweaty
warm, we find a place to stand and hold on tight.
—Submitted on 07/09/2020
Lauren Linkowski is a learning specialist in upstate New York.
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