Café Eternal

A fireplace in the back of my head. Glass
panels keep me from the cold, my
thoughts intact. Both hands on a ceramic
cup that bubbles up to my shoulders. Had
the font on the poster been any smaller I
would have missed the name of the event.
The things we mean to say. A bit more
than a month ago. I reach for a dusty
postcard. I look around. No other
customer. They look to be okay with that,
not mopping the floor just yet. They look
as though they're doing dishes at home.
They know I'm rarely here this late at
night, this close to closing. I want them to
say something. Then I'd rather not. The
place is a boxcar, I tell them, and tonight is
the night I park it outside the eternal portal
at the edge of an unfinished highway while
stars trampoline on a crumbling guardrail.
He turns off the tap, wipes his hands. She
turns it on. He puts his hands back into the
sink, having noticed a cup that hadn't
been there earlier. It's okay, she says. I'll
wash it.