Every time she came to our table
she would adjust our plates slightly
straightening to either
perpendicular or parallel
she would pause
as if inviting us to speak first
allowing us to show initiative
(which we didn't)
perhaps demonstrating her control
of the interaction
before she went through
the beats of the well worn script
there was something not
all-together welcoming about her
not to say unpleasant
but defiant, masked and hidden
defiant still
not to us or the artisan tacos she sold
but to the world
as if some time in the past
she had made a decision
not to be swept up in life
but a rock which parted its waters
a split in the current
rather than its prisoner
I think her name was Emily.
Her thin silver hoop noise ring
out of place in its predictability.
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