Hibiscus Soda

As I draw my ring finger along

the wood grain of the deep oak restaurant 

dinner table, you ask me 

what you have always asked me:

What do you want?

My favorite question, asked at 

our favorite restaurant. My answer 

never falters: hibiscus soda. This is the only 

place where we can get it. The lighting is always

too dim at this hour, and I can barely read 

the menu even if I tried. The rest of my order, 

you still have memorized, from when 

we were still together. I swallow down 

the memories as each one rises, stretching 

toward the sconces high on the wall. Each one leaving a sour taste 

like the fruit that swirls alongside 

the herbal flavors of my drink on my tongue. Every time I 

think to ask you something new, you replace the question 

with our old script. Old feelings bouncing back and forth between us like 

the marbles we used to play in schoolyard games. 

Dirty and silent as the blue wallpaper lining 

the hallways of this old restaurant. 

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