At The Diner With Azalea

At the Diner with Azalea

by Bethany Saltman

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We sit in our booth.

She is 3 and I am 40,

so that’s the kind of conversation

we have: simple. A little contrived.

Across from us are two women,

of the same age, both a little rough, sad even,

probably lovers, for a long time. They open their menus

and one silently closes hers: the decision maker.

The other just isn’t sure what she’s in the mood for.

She just had a ham and cheese omelet yesterday

and the day before, too! So it is, she says,

as she closes hers.

Azalea and I argue over something.

Probably apple juice.

I keep kind of staring at the omelet lady.

I can’t help it. I’m intrigued.

Three days in a row is a lot of omelets!

Will she be happy with it when it comes?

My own body buzzes with that wild pleasure

of waiting for something I know I love.

So often it’s something salty

on a plate, but it could also be the warm, wide face

of someone who will share my burden. Or it could be

the quiet that barely exists when I walk into the house

by myself, unencumbered by people or tasks. Or the milky

pee smell of Azalea as she awakens from rest.

Alone—the meal, the husband, the house, or child—

they all turn on their own axis, filling their exact shape

in space. When we meet, it’s not that those bodies change

or enlarge to include me, but something happens between us

and it all disappears. And it’s that blank space

that I really long for between the pages

of every menu, on the brink

of every thing.

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