Out for the Evening

OUT FOR THE EVENING / James Finnegan I've torn the page from the TV guide, jotted down the number of a restaurant that takes reservations. There were evenings when we would talk for hours in some crowded nightspot. Then, all we might worry over were cigarette burns in silk, not clothes-moths in closets and a wardrobe of only wool. Tonight, I will retie my necktie four times before it falls just right at the waist and my wife, of course she will wear red. We will climb into the back of a taxicab. The storefronts flickering past like a silent movie wherein the people live impeccable lives, not pregnant, never poor and without pain. Where the cab lets us out the cardiovascular system of the city is full of neon and I break a fifty without hesitation or regret. In this place the band plays too loud to talk. You must let your lips pass the palpable words to her earlobes and fingertips. Here we can dance unto damn or until dawn. At the end of the evening in a backroom, a musician will break down his saxophone and drain honey when there should have been only spit. What I wish for the waitress is a tip that will make her night. For the janitor who speaks no English 46 · The Missouri Review and in the morning must buff the dancefloor, let these scuffmarks become an alphabet he can understand. Outside, the night air is cold, clear. There are no stars less than a half-carat, very fine and the moon will not be devalued. I have just enough money left to pay the babysitter, but if we could really afford it, this night would never have happened and I believe, days later, when we are brought again to tears, the drops will taste of champagne. James Finnegan THE MISSOURI REVIEW · 47 ...