At the Art Institute, I saw someone
I'd met professionally a while back.
We talked easily enough. I offered
to buy us something to eat, museum café.
She accepted. Younger than I, she'd
lived a lot already. I sensed she was
broke— nothing obvious, just intuition.
With coffee and food, we talked
more. I said I was
glad we had run into each other.
It was true. Happenstance
had pleased me. Her
face changed. Maybe apparitions
of men she’d known had appeared
around the table. Maybe she couldn’t
recall a single social interaction
in which someone but especially
men had not seemed
to want too much from her.
I sensed she was broke. I saw she
thought she saw me wanting something.
It’s true. I wanted her to finish her
coffee and say, “Nice to see you,”
and leave. I wanted to say,
“Nice to see you,” and leave.
We said phrases like that. Her
face kept its wariness. Her
experience had put her on alert.
We left the café and parted.
Can the pronoun “he” ever
want nothing from the pronoun “her”?
Only in theory. My acquaintance
did not live in theory. Her life
was composed of constant practice.
Insistent apparitions had sat at table.
I sensed she was broke. Now I hope
that she’s not broke, that she’s
better and well. Well, when I think
of her that day, I feel briefly sad for
simple social moves quickly
complex in Chicago, not to mention
everywhere. I am a ghost at
a café table in the Art Institute
looking at her guarded face. I want
to say, “I don’t want anything. Just
enjoy the coffee, the food, the rest.”
Her face says, “If you say that,
then you do want something. You
want me to believe you, and believe the rest.”
hans ostrom 1990/2021
