Andrea, not long ago I saw your face on a cold Tuesday.
I had just been fired. I was drinking in a bar and I saw you.
You were at a table with several people I did not recognize.
I hurriedly walked over and everything morphed monstrously.
The girl seated at the table had no music in her laughter,
her hair was glossy in an artificial way, her eyes were dull.
She was clearly American but wore a bright green tee-shirt
emblazoned with certain unrelated Greek characters.
I walked up to her and said, “Khaíre, Alecto.” She looked at me stupidly.
I said, “My mistake. There were Greek letters on your shirt, so I assumed...”
I turned on my heel and bit beneath a fingernail until it bled.
It is uncomfortable to weep in public. Pain is cheaper than humiliation.
I walked back to my barstool, sat, and raised my finger to the saltwater blonde
who worked behind the bar. She was wearing tiny white shorts and smiled.
She always enjoys my company because I tip well. She came over.
I ordered three cheap vodkas and drank them as she set them down.
Oh Andrea, if we had been in love I could have replaced you.
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