You came in by yourself, and I insensitively asked
"Just one?" instead of "How many in your party?"
You didn't seem to notice, though, and sat down
without looking in my direction.
I took your order without writing it down,
but you weren't impressed.
"Water," you said, even though I suggested a merlot
"and a ribeye, medium rare."
I liked your newsboy cap, and watched the persistent
shaking of your left hand as it lifted fork to mouth.
I wanted to sit down and talk; to ask if you had
any good stories to tell, how long you had lived in Spokane,
or if you had fought in any wars.
I wanted to know if your wife had died,
or if you ever had one,
where your family was
and why they had left you to dine by yourself.
But you weren't interested in chatting --
not with me, anyways,
so I let you eat your steak in peace.
You gave me ten percent,
and walked out the door
without saying a word.
I remember hoping that you had someone to go home to,
or that I would see you again.
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