Radio Days by Ioannis Lachanis | Facebook | Etsy Shop
I Owe You Dinner
You cooked for me and now I can’t remember what we ate.
I met your family, you don’t like them much
they seem amused by me, cynical maybe
are they smirking at me? Do they
think this looks
like a date?
I can’t let myself think they suspect you like me
not when I’ve been aching for signs but maybe you inviting me
is you trying to highlight this tension between us;
trying to say, if it feels like a date then maybe
it should be one?
Do they know how nervous I am, how aware I am of your hands?
As you set me to chopping, I steal glances at your back
while you cook, dropping my gaze to the table when you turn
mid-sentence, grabbing ingredients, pulling out pots and pans.
I cut my finger and wince, it’s not bad just a scratch
I stand up to walk over and run it under the tap
but you’ve crossed the floor and before I can catch my breath
you’re holding my hand.
Your fingers lightly gently lift mine to the light
and I see nothing else at all.
Your sister walks in.
You return to your post by the oven and start to boast
about something to do with school, make some kind of joke.
She raises her eyebrows to you and takes a slow side glance at me.
I’ve not been able to hear since you dropped my hand.
She leans on the counter you lean over
two silhouettes projected out into the garden, into the night
from this brightly lit kitchen.
There is a roaring in my ears
the water rushes from the tap.
I see your shoulders push back, dusting me off
brushing off everything we never asked
nothing to see here
nothing to say.
If the spell was never cast
there is nothing to break.