Over Grenache, she says a dead embryo but uses the word for the procedure, adding she’d like to see her dad a grandparent; this happened years ago and she’s aware
she hasn’t the word for lament⎯Her sister’s older, wants to do it
the right way, the right way, I say She means her sister wants
what she doesn’t. A wanted out of a relationship so she moved in
with her dad, had the happy fortune to be running late for work
when he fell in the shower,
when his eyes wouldn’t move and she couldn’t heave
a man’s man. Built. Blue collar, a mechanic’s shirt
the day he was drinking. I sat next to him, A brought me a beer, offering
no introductions, turning to other patrons
and we started gabbing. His head was shaved, eyes kind, ardent, face pleasant
never would’ve guessed he had the stroke He told me a story about a couple
at the bar last time he was at the Trophy⎯
Ever been here ‘round closing? he asked. I admitted, no
… the boyfriend, bellicose, drunk, had refused to leave. A called the police.
You wonder what goes through someone’s head, he said, reaching the part where
this guy gives it a row⎯cops hurry him away; the girlfriend, hissing at A, says cunt
and A snaps stepping up on a cooler,
up on the bar, grabbing this woman by the hair bringing
exit. We roared, and now, in the know, I can say his face was beaming.
A came back. He bought a round. When A returned with the bottles,
opening her Newcastle, she introduced me to her father.
She’s afraid of losing him.
She wants to see his loss revoked, not hers.
Hers isn’t loss.