The Clocks

under the white fluorescence of the beer garden, the oak tables gleamed against the pine, their surfaces marked with faint rings where ashtrays once stood. the coasters still carried their faded pictures of maidens; the empty glasses held thin circles of dry froth along their rims. I had a pint in front of me, my scarf on the table — and then I looked across the open courtyard, and there you were.

you leaned in and kissed your man, soft and unhurried, yet your eyes stayed on me over his shoulder. something shifted in me at the sight of it, a quiet wrongness that grew heavier the longer I held your gaze — your tongue moving in his mouth, your hand resting easy on his thigh. I kept looking back until I had to turn my head for a second, just long enough for the kiss to finish, the air between us already carrying a low charge I couldn’t name.

when he rose and walked toward the bar, you shaped the word hello with your mouth across the space between us. the blush came up fast and hot from my chest into my face before I could stop it, because I hadn’t known what to expect, and hadn’t been ready for it.

then you smiled — the same smile you’d had in your eyes a moment before — and suddenly the air was thick with red-hot lava, every ordinary thing, the tables, the lights, the sound of glasses, gone far away.

snow starts flaking down,
you look wonderful in green,
clocks go back tonight.