Brief Encounter

A man with large hands

waits in line behind me.

The glass of the vending machine

reflects my restless eyes.

They tell me

my face would be missed

but no one ever tells me by whom

so I tell myself I am missed, saying my name aloud

remembering what I was called.

Then, I wondered

if the last time he kissed me

did I taste good

or just good enough for now?

I wanted to tell him

I was all out of that flavor.

My mother once told me

that girls like me are

like airport waiting areas,

only for the time in between

for nodding off to the fluorescent flashing

before a red-eye flight,

like the sticky stains

of the latch-key kid who was left home alone till dawn

calling for her father whose broad back was more familiar.

My mother said

that girls like me are

like the dingy armchairs of

passing through for a stranger who is waiting for

a connecting flight on his way home to his wife.

He is up now.

He glances over at me leaning on the wall

as he fumbles for change.

He presses B4 for chips, gets cookies instead

Smiles saying, “You’ll do for now.”