We relax over lunch, sipping Courvoisier floats,
savoring lemon slices sugared in champagne,
while the waiter brings paté spiced with caper berries
and escargot smothered in butter, morsels as

juicy
as her opening words. "I’m in love," she confides,
licking butter from her lips. "He’s a dream come true —
an artist, a teacher and — best of all — unattached."
I listen but the Courvoisier intrudes, fruity,

sweet –
all wrong. "He’s been married, of course," she babbles on,
fingers tapping the flute of champagne. "But his wife died –
despite chemo, chemicals and Sloan Kettering."
My wedding band presses against my finger as she

digs
her knife into the mousse and instinct makes me ask,
"How long since her death?" "Just three months," she answers,
spreading mousse on a melba cracker as I wonder,
Would my husband do this to me? No, I tell myself

stabbing
an escargot, I wouldn’t be replaced in three months. Not in ninety goddamn days! I lay my fork aside,
Escargot untouched, even as she exclaims,
"This champagne is perfect!" The sun seeps through a window,

highlights
droplets like quicksilver on my champagne flute, a cool
condensation that ices crystal, reveals my glass
                  to be half empty — or perhaps half full.