He was early,
seated at the bar,
his drink already in hand.

I never seemed to enjoy
the early ones.
They arrived too soon,
too much,
lacking ease and adroitness.

He failed me quickly,
taking the bait
so neatly laid
upon my neck.
“Your pearls,”
he spoke,
“…how beautiful.”

I rolled my eyes—
I did not wear them
for him.

Pearls
are but tiny blisters,
caught in oyster maws.
They’re much like men
in how they come
to stick in your craw—
festering.

“They’re fake,”
I say,
lying.
“Cheap things.”

He smiles thin,
“I’ll buy you a drink.”

I groan
inwardly.
I should tear
the chain
and be done.

[Original poem by Katherine Paige Steffeter, included in the ‘Creative Journal’ poetry project. Written as part of North Central College literature studies. Final edits completed in 2023. Published via Writco. All rights reserved.]

© Katherine Steffeter