I didn't understand the mood.
You refused to look at me,
pretending to make dinner -
pots clanging, cabinets slamming,
dishes sliding in my direction
where I sat confused.

I still hadn't learned
to read you.
I went from being “the kid”
to a friend, to a date -
sometimes all in one day.
You finally sat down, asking me
why I was there.
Wasn't I seeing someone tonight,
a new woman on my arm?
Someone young -
a pretty, giggly thing in tight, ripped jeans?
Went on about being seven years older,
more mature, and not my type,
your eyes...