Rattling the Ice

She’s rattling the ice against the glass again;again I’m wondering aloud, “Why, of all the menyou know, are you out with me?” She shrugs,sets down the glass, smiles perplexed—that words confuse like hers. “No,” I push,I always push, “What brought you here?’She says the taxi and I chuckle, as ifby chuckling we have finished our intercourseand can go on, consummated. The question betraysconfidence anyway, so instead I ask about herday. The taxi driver was nice, she says; I seeshe’s working backwards, our little humor game,so our breaths inhale similar air—it’s tricky, but effective. She says she got a raise,I say me too, she says don’t be crass.The waiter arrives with the dish I can’tpronounce and we all say merci because we allneed it. I eat it; it’s alright. She says“Of all the dishes, why this one?” She’srattling the ice against the glass again,“I just want to keep you interested,” I don’t saybut I do say, “It’s fun to be dangerous everynow and then.” She smiles and takes a sip.