Separation Gets One Out & About

Quinn McIlhone

I renounce her at Christmas

but fly back from Florida

in mid-January

to find the city electric

only because she’s in it,

the winter sun red gold

like she did her hair for me,

even the snow alluring

in that I’ll share it with her.

My plane sails by her building

and the flight seems destiny.

I expect her to be at the airport,

on business, whatever,

but there to meet me by chance.

If we are in the same city,

surely we’ll be together.

I stake out her office

next day, so overwrought

I end up in Thursday’s,

as if she’d spend an afternoon

in a Crescent Street bar.

I’ve been unhinged for months

– I’m sure she’ll walk in.

I have you safely stashed

at home the evening

of her office party

and know she’s friendly

with the guest of honour

and will be at the get-together.

I’m certain of the venue,

a hotel bar near her office,

so I walk there after work

only to find it deserted.

I check another lounge

but still no party

and torture myself

with visions of her flirting

with other men

as I charge Swann-like

to her office local,

looking for someone

who knows where everyone

has gone. Nursing a pint,

a night supervisor tells me

he thinks they went to a boîte

on St. Laurent but isn’t sure

they’d still be there.

I accept a beer from him

rather than face

another empty club.