I sit patiently in my favorite restaurant
a comfortable booth
a glass of wine in the proper glass
amber light dimmed but not dark.
I watch the maître d straighten a bit
as she comes through the door.
He guides her to the booth decorously
her hand on his elbow as if blind.
And so she is blind, and so am I
at least to each other, at least until now.
As I stand to greet her
I try to suppress preconceived notions—
her runway walk in four inch stilettos
her perfectly round
where she should be round  
her impossibly flat
where she should be flat.
I am dressed to best hide my paunch.
My head is shaved
to imply baldness is a choice.
We have not yet said a word
but she can see I am and ageing sailor
on the sea of heartbreak.
I am certain that, for all her beauty, has been dumped
probably for a younger woman
at least three years ago—
and in the interim, has suffered
through the worst, the best, the in-betweens
but has not yet clicked.  
In the next ninety seconds
I will know and she will know
and we will each know that the other knows
if there is even a slightly plausible—
wobbly little—
chance in the known universe.