Table for Two Next Thursday

Table for two next Thursday
Same corner, half past eight

For seven months he brings his books into the café late
Orders rooibos, no sugar, leaves before she locks the gate
She is forty-eight and careful; he is learning single life
Both can spot an empty promise dressed in candlelight
He never calls her angel, never asks her why alone
He stacks the chairs beside her, then remembers to go home
Tonight the card machine freezes, and they wait beneath one lamp
He says, I like our Thursdays more than I had ever planned

No forever in a hurry
No desire dressed as fate
If you want one honest dinner
I can ask and I can wait

Table for two next Thursday, same corner, half past eight
No burning through the future, no pretending this is fate
Bring the stories that made caution; I will bring mine to the plate
Table for two next Thursday—something good can learn to wait

Next Thursday
Half past eight

She arrives in office trousers, not the dress her sister chose
He brings back the borrowed novel with a bus ticket as a note
She tells him of the marriage where apologies came cheap
He tells her grief made every room a place he could not sleep
They split one lemon pudding, laugh before the plates are clear
He asks before he takes her hand; she answers, Keep it here
At closing she writes Thursday in the calendar by name
Not a spark that needs consuming—just a place to meet again

Table for two next Thursday, same corner, half past eight
No burning through the future, no pretending this is fate
Bring the lives that made us careful; we can set them by the plate
Table for two next Thursday—something good can learn to wait

I thought a slower answer
Meant my heart had gone away
Then you asked without demanding
And desire felt safe

Table for two next Thursday; keep the corner, change the time
We can let this grow in daylight, not just after closing time
Bring the children when we're ready; bring no promises today
Table for two next Thursday—we are choosing not to race

Rooibos
One book
Next Thursday