A casual glance, a comment,
a smile, a casual reply.
Thoughts, like tiny ants running.
She looks at him coolly
over the rim of her coffee cup.
He could be an Olympic athlete,
make pretty babies. What?
Where did that come from?
She’s attractive, he thinks.
He wonders what kind of music
she likes. Would she go to dinner?
The ants slow down.
He’s probably a jerk.
He’d ask me to a football game.
I wonder if she’d like
the museum?
That great new exhibit.
It’d be great if he was
a museum guy.
Probably not.
Probably a sports bar guy.
She’s probably not a
museum girl. Probably
likes noisy bars.
The bell over the door
rings. She looks up
to see him leaving.
He stops in the doorway,
turns and walks back
toward her table.
The ants run wild.
