There were paving stones,
a menu in a glass case,
steps descending.
You were with her,
smoking among checkered tables,
trembling candles. Wine.
Our eyes met over shoulders,
forkfuls of spaghetti.
Her back to me, his to you.
It didn't matter what you were saying.
Your occasional smile spoke
between gestures.
I wondered: which
flat
you would return to; if you had a cat;
what album you would choose.
Had I known it was you
I would have stopped for a kiss
on the way out.
