Spanish Mood Lighting
I imagine he wore stylishly outdated glasses,
slightly ironic. I imagine he’s blonde,
his flaxen hair carefully constructed
to match his tasteful jeans and sweater.
Dimples, maybe. An inoffensive odor.
A little short. Not pudgy or svelte. Eager.
Though for all I know he was a total slob,
or a bad kisser with a mustache, a fervent politico,
all manner of unpalatable. Or maybe he was divine
in all the ways you aren’t. Who knows?
You only met once, for drinks after work
at Franco, the fancy new tapas place downtown,
and under red-tinged Spanish mood lighting
you talked to each other of what it means
to be wounded. A short tape you’ve heard before.
You shared paella and not much more.
You shook hands out front. That was it. Though
even this I have to imagine. All I know for sure
is his name. Byron. I imagine he was nervous.
I imagine so were you.