Friday Night

The graying man behind my dad
downs the contents of his martini glass
and says something to the waiter
I can’t hear.
Dr. Paris is talking to me.
“I hear you’re going to have
another visitor from Japan.
When’s he arriving?”
“Tuesday.” Her meal arrives.
She cuts into a tomato slice.
“How long is he staying in Vermont?”
“Seven weeks.” “That’s a long time.”
“Yeah.” My root beer bottle is empty.
I pick up my water glass instead.
My dad’s talking about tiramisu
and African swallows
on Victorian postcards.
I let him sneak a bite of bitter cheesecake
and stare through the cataract of the sky.
Dr. Paris tries again.
“Caila and I saw MMU’s musical—“
“—Pippin—“
“a few weeks ago. Yes.”
“What day did you go?”
“Friday night.”
“Oh. I went
Saturday.”
“I guess we just missed each other.”
“How’d you like the play?”
“Kind of an odd plot, don’t you think?
I’d expected it to be
historical fiction or something.
I mean, I liked it.
But there was the stage manager and
people popping out at random times
and just general
confusion.”
“Yeah, I guess
there is.”
“What?”