John Tustin

The Look I Took

She sits across from me
in the diner booth,
this friend I see from time to time
when I’m sure I won’t embarrass myself too much
and tell her how much I want her.

One of her front teeth 
is just a little crooked.
Just like all of her face:
a tad off, distorted –
one eye a little larger,
a bump on her nose
and even her smile is uneven.
It works.
She’s so beautiful.

I keep my thoughts to myself now
because there’s no point in telling
and I want her to feel safe
while sitting across from me.
I want her to be happy and open
and willing to tell me everything
even if it means
not being happy and open myself.
She deserves it.
She’s every bit as beautiful inside.
She deserves anything she wants.

She excuses herself 
to use the restroom
and when she gets up
she bows to me
the way a person does
when they push out their chair
getting up from a table
and I can see down her shirt,
getting a peek at her cleavage.
Her wonderful little breasts,
so close to me,
close enough to touch
but of course I don’t –
I shouldn’t even be looking
but I do for a moment.

While she’s gone
I think about why I didn’t avert my eyes
when normally I would have –
I would have if it was anyone else.
She’ll go home to her husband
and I’ll go home
and think about her cleavage,
her bra,
her shoulderblade
and the flesh of her neck
that was so close
I could have kissed it.

The look I took,
I took it by mistake,
without permission
but I will cherish it.
It’s mine.