The Dinner Table

She sits across from you at the table
Sipping silently from her glass of red wine
The kind with a fly in it...

(she never notices the fly)

And you chatter away at camping and chuckle away at football and smatter the conversation with tiny sweet nothings you can't whisper in her ear,

(she's across the table)

You hold her hand there, your pale fingers brushing slightly on one another
Like the sex she neglected two evenings before today
Acted out
Played out
Right there on the wide open table cloth
Like nakedness

(she's wearing a grey dress with a rhinestone collar)

The things in your mind are meaningless

(like the conversation)

A record plays with consistency.
A record about secrets.
Constant secrets.
Consistent secrets.
Not telling
Not telling
Not telling...

You wipe your face with your napkin

(a cloth napkin, and only the corners are crumby)

You take her to bed.

The bed is cold.
A fire crackles at the end of it.
You've paid a lot of money for this room.
And at the end of the sex you lie there and stare at the crackling fire and the steam of your breath and you remember not telling and consistent secrets and I feel the earth move under me from all the way over here.  My mountains.
Your infinite sea.