My heel had been bleeding the whole walk over,

crimson pooled in the sole of my shoe.

You said later the sight of it made your stomach turn.

But evidently not enough to stop you

from stealing one of my scallops

with your fork.

I spin my plate towards you and offer another bite.

take as much as you want, I say,

my words barely a breath

from my lips before you

pinch your eyebrows at me and say

my sharing is getting to be a bit too much.

I should really think of myself.

I want to shout back that I do, I have, I am

thinking of myself right now.

Sitting in this restaurant with you

and sharing these scallops,

sharing this table,

sharing the bill-- 

That is me thinking of myself.

The most selfish thing I can do

is share my time with you,

I find myself delusionally thinking.

Still, I sit silently,

filled with an unease

I cannot name,

gorging myself

on the scallops

I was already too full to eat.

All the while,

Two subway stops away,

there is another girl laying in your bed.

Me unaware of her,

her unaware of me,

You, painfully aware of us both.

Months later, I will wonder

Was this a warning?

Your sheepish way

of telling me that you are not

someone to be trusted?

There is the dead eye

of the Branzino on your plate,

untouched by my fork.

Black and glassy, smooth and lightless,

a button sewn to charred flesh.

Seeing all that is unsaid.

I stare at it

and it stares back.