Cracking Lobster

Why would anyone be the last couple lingering in the corner of a bar, swirling the last sip of wine, the last hint of crimson that’s barely drinkable,

when servers are sweeping their sections, refilling condiments, when the restaurant’s closed—

unless their hearts brim with the common minutiae of youth, or they’re lovers cheating on their spouses, placing a chin on the other’s shoulder

the way servers know married couples never do in restaurants, not even celebratory occasions. An anniversary dinner is sufficient if a bottle of wine is

shared throughout the meal, the bottle turned upside down in the wine bucket is a make-shift hourglass when it’s time to leave, to bring the check & dessert to-go, as they need

to relieve the babysitter. This is what you learn from married couples while cracking lobster, who ask if you attend the local university,

if this is just part-time work to give you a sense of responsibility. You remove the meat

from the claws & tail & knuckles, rake the joints to the edge of the tray & stuff the tail’s shell into the carcass, presenting the meat, the generous dish of clarified butter still steaming.

You enjoy cracking lobster especially for these moments, though you’d rather loosen your tie, fold your apron & join co-workers for a beer on the patio

because it’s what you do in the service industry— sit around a table just sprayed free of muck stuck between the table slats & laugh remembering

how you slipped carrying drinks but managed not to spill a drop. You’re hailed a super-server, a model employee, a person of interest should a lawyer arrive subpoena in hand for you to testify

because you’ve witnessed a couple coupling at the bar who shouldn’t have & now

it’s confirmed. So you think who is this person who’s called you to testify? Perhaps a woman you waited on once,

who sat alone at a small table for two, in full view of the bar, watching them: he brushing his nose against her cheek, & she darting a tongue at his earlobe. You’re cracking her lobster as she sits staring,

as if each second ticking by is another room cordoned off in her heart. You struggle removing the meat, the carapace having grown so hard you have to hack it apart, ripping & plying flesh from the walls,

you know so much will remain glued inside the claws & hope she doesn’t mind. You ask if she’d like to save tomalley leaking from the body, but she’s no longer a woman indulging delicacies, you presume,

sensing how she seems to be rinsed of a former sweetness evident in how frown lines crowd her eyes & mouth, what little lasted of youthfulness vanishing when she tells you no, take the body away, so you do,

placing it with the rest of the broken parts you’ve collected, leaving a mound of tattered meat she begins to eat slowly, before you’ve even packed up the serving stand & hoisted the tray on your shoulder.

You see her one last time while you’re at the tank struggling so terribly with a lobster you have to snare it with your bare hands. She passes by not making eye contact, but watches you grab it by the abdomen to calm its thrashing.

Maybe she turned to witness you walk it back to the kitchen, to its death. Though, it’s likely she left needing no confirmation, having already known everything she suspected.