Summer Days Are Gone So Quickly

Quinn McIlhone

Overcome by hunger

on taking a job,

I scoff two lobsters

at La Bodega

as we discuss

my good fortune.

I’ll make solid money,

and feel empowered

by my change of status,

but you’re not certain

about my emergence

as a corporate warrior.

On learning my salary,

you are taken aback

and sip water

to compose yourself.

You enjoy buying me

a monthly bus pass

and paying for movie tickets,

but suddenly

I’m the big earner.

It occurs to me

I’ll never know

what it is to be flush

when single,

but I don’t care.

No amount of money

will get me a girl

as nice as you.

A citizen and taxpayer,

I clean my lips

with a cloth napkin

and throw down a few bills

as we leave.

You wear a new summer dress

to the show at the museum

and I admire you as we shuffle

past the Braque sculptures.

But when we have coffee

on a terrasse off Sherbrooke

across the street

from the Musée,

you are shy nonetheless,

as though apologizing

for your loveliness.

We sip lattes

on this sunny Saturday,

comfortable in silence,

content to love

without words.

I should be a man

and ask you how

a divorcée goes about

getting remarried,

but the timely gesture

has always eluded me.

Instead I try to be clever

about the art exhibit,

keeping all options open

for my illustrious future.