Pulse

I am not yet used to the feel of the watch
on my wrist, and I keep myself occupied
shifting it back and forth,
leaning my head against my wrist
to hear the slow, consistent pulse.
A diffused white light rests against
one side of her face, and falls calmly on
the orange table, the booth
at Mi Ranchito. We have passed
placid assurances, awkward questions.
She has given up asking about the necklace
she returned me.
Her boyfriend knows where she is.

We order, we talk, we eat. Our hands
do not coast, confident, across the table
and touch. Our eyes
do not meet.
It has been a long time since
we walked together on a cool summer evening
like this.

As we stand to go, she notices. “You’re
wearing a watch.” I smile and we go.