- Do you think the woman at that table is smoking?
- I don't know about that.
- Don't you think so?
- She does have an orange tipped john silver
in the hand that she keeps raising to her mouth.
little pilsner shrugged, and the two sat ogling the hand
as it elevatored up and down between her lap and face.
They sat quietly, long after the woman, her date, and
the hand that held the stub had left their tab and, in the rain,
had introduced their Auto to a tree that borderlined
the road that led to their respective houses.
the two sat, unaware, still staring at the wall behind
what was her chair, enjoying the silence they had payed for
with their meal, as the germans whispered at their tables around them.
it was then that pilsner broke the silence, broke a glass,
broke bread, broke skin, broke rank and asked
the question that so many people have, and will
until death parts their hair, until the coroner ties their shoes.
As he asked it, the police and a motorist were bringing the
woman and man up the grass toward an impatient ambulance,
and in the restaurant, the candle burned between
our two heroes like an origami sunrise.