With a phantom palm, he sets his grip upon the handle,
Weathered eyes smiling through the tint.
Her teeth shine through the reflection of his coat,
Clotting the empty space above his breast-pocket.

And smoothly, the door swings open, his arm already outstretched-
She catches with a tentative grip beneath cufflinks, followed by
Twin click-clacks that cut into the fresh asphalt.

In his wise wrinkles, vines across a façade, he laughs
A soft bellow, while his thumbjoint traces a shell
Over the back of her hand.

                           Their lips meet.

She tears a barren drop from her eyes, quickly held
By his silk handkerchief. And he looks down gently.
A slight, hopeful smile strips itself between his cheeks,
That the dappled glitter in those eyes is for him,
That the rain is only there for the rainbow.

But, when the cloth was swept away, her tears were seen
For what they really were. The frown met with disbelief.
Grim cold clutched.
He sat. Incomprehension swelling.
She stood up, and strutted for the door.

And as the maître d' watched her brush onto the street,
He looked back to the half-empty table, and couldn't understand,
Why she didn't love him.