Banter Isn’t Cute

who is there to impress
at 3 a.m., 7-11
they walked in
arm in arm, as though
they owned the place
and they bantered
with each other, in a
loud and obvious way
that was clear
they thought they
looked cute together,
He
in acid-washed tight
jeans, and running shoes,
long sleeved T that covered
the nape, a boyish mess
She
in ankle boots, black tights,
long brown summer hair
streaked with something
youthful, black leather
turtleshell purse
and olive pea coat,
gods know what else
underdressed for mid December,
image whores,
it was a social dance
He looked me up and
down first
it was his masculine
duty to perform
a threat assessment check,
I ignored,
stood ambivalent, and stared
instead at the Subway sandwich
menu, then She
took her turn
perhaps to assess her
relationship, there are always
bigger fish
I cut a smirk, in my dirty
jeans and well worn hoodie,
toque and mitts,
and listened as He barked
his order at the immigrant
employee, “More of this,
he said,
less of that.” She cooed
at him and I thought to ask
them both
“Were you the ones
that drove up
in that busted-ass minivan,
early 90’s model Chrysler?
You know,
you have a headlight out.”
I decided instead
not to bother
Why show them a mirror
with which to see?
they will, or
they won’t, a couple
of self-entitled
boors.
I’m certain they glow
more brilliantly
than their friends.

© Emerys Watchel, 2015 All rights reserved.

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