french pressed

by Steven J. Serafiani

you invited me in for coffee,
told me to make myself at home,
I took in your graceful walk to the kitchen,
your flowing brunette hair bobbing with steps,
“do you want cream?” you asked, standing in the door frame,
jesus, that sweet cadence,
“That would be great darlin,”
your glistening eyes twinkling above perfect cheekbones,
I took a seat in your living room while you french pressed a dark roast,
sat on a pure white modern couch with hemstitched piqué pillows,
I stared at your matching end tables,
with matching burgundy shaded lamps,
the coffee table with perfectly positioned magazines,
brides, cosmo, home and design, the new yorker, vanity fair,
all in alphabetical order,
the pages still crisp,
the candle votives with not a single wax drip,
I bent down to the cherry amber hardwood,
took my finger to the surface and examined it,
not one speck of dust,
those elegant champagne drapes outlining the french windows,
overlooking the park from ten floors,
the original art hung in perfect symmetry,
frames full of beaming family trees,
the large LCD TV pristine,
my reflection crystalline,
leg began to shake,
then the other,
I leaned back and ruffled my hair,
she entered like a forties starlet,
tray in hand,
the coffee cups equidistant,
designer creamer dispenser,
sugar as well,
she sat down,
I popped up,
“I have to go,”
she began stammering vowels in place of questions,
she looked dejected, blue,
I darted for the door,
and as I left I nudged a piece of art askew.

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