The Whisky Blot
Once, I heard someone say, “You only take your date out to dinner
“if you can’t come up with anything more exciting.”
Yet, here we sit, in this restaurant, as if we had met only yesterday,
but some one hundred years ago,
and the place looks exactly like that:
modeled after a Philip Marlowe novel.
Cherry-oak tables, a bar made from what might be mahogany,
thick cushions. Expensive stuff. Even the light,
raining from the chandeliers in tiny crystals, seems special.
A guy with a fedora sips whisky at the bar, from behind which
an audience cheers for us, even though we drink
one from their midst, a bottle of cava,
solely for our pleasure,
because it tastes like a kept promise.
We feast on pimientos de padrón, where
you never know whether the one you take
will burn your tongue.
Burrata. Pasta al tartufo. More kept promises.
Outside, the trees that line the street
are already busy preparing a red carpet made from leaves
for the way back to what is now home.
When it’s time to leave, the waiter brings the bill: 98.50
in a foreign currency. A hundred and ten, with a tip.
And even though I give him the money, I don’t pay for the meal.
Maximilian Speicher (https://www.maxspeicher.com) is a designer who writes, mostly sitting on his balcony in Barcelona, watching his orange trees grow. Although he’s been writing poetry on and off for many years, he only recently started submitting it. His first published poems have appeared in Impspired and Otoliths Magazine, and more are forthcoming in The Avalon Literary Review and The Disappointed Housewife.
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