Paper Pusher

There's chemistry in the business, just not from this side of the uniform; they're having their dinners on their Saturday nights, fingers grapevining around wine glasses, feet touching under the table. In the corner a man plays guitar, finger-picking his way around the noise of the bar crowd. Men move their chairs around the table to be next to their lovers.

They are too close to notice as I bring them more wine, too close to really be listening to each other.

At a neighboring table, a woman taps her glass pointedly. I pretend not to notice.

In the back, behind the curtain, the radio meshes with the sounds from the restaurant. The man with the guitar tells Jojo to get back, get back, get back to where he once belonged, while Conor Oberst croons through the speakers; I'm glad I didn't die before I met you.

You walk in with a glass of Coca-Cola; say it's got a little tangerine vodka; say shouldn't you be home by now; say you look like you need a break.

We lock ourselves in the bookkeeper's office. Anyone in the world can be a paper pusher, I swear to God.  

A man with a harmonica joins the man with the guitar. Is Sister Innocent in the house tonight? He asks the crowd; they jeer. There is so much room for rum in January, and so little room to squeeze out the door.

You smile that We're done now smile against my mouth, unlock the door, and step back into the white noise. I pull my black polo back on, straighten a clip in my hair, and follow; contrary to the words through the stereo, nothing has suddenly changed.

I remember the woman who had wanted more wine.

I step through the curtain, and return.