The Last Poem (Fiction)

"What's it all mean?" she asked, passing back the poem he'd asked her to read.

"I don't know," he replied, avoiding her steady gaze, "It's about nothing."

"Well it's about something," she challenged, "I know you well enough to know that." She picked up a glass of wine and brought it to her lips, tipping it upwards and holding it there momentarily, emptying the few drops that remained.

"I don't know, I just wrote it, I forget what inspired it...it's just some dumb poem." She listened to his denial, looking away for a moment to follow her index finger tracing the lip of her empty glass.

"Okay, whatever you say. You know where to find me if you want to discuss it."

He nodded his head and looked down at the poem. He turned the page over, so as not to see the staggered lines on the page, "Yes, I know how to find you," he muttered.

Looking up from her glass, she gave no hint of whatever it might be she was thinking. He smiled slightly, the corner of his right lip, drawn inward, hoping and yet not wishing that she could read the ruefulness in that grimace.

She smiled back, seemingly unaffected, though the lilt in her voice gave her away, "Okay, I have to go," she said, "I've lots of things to do at home, two days of dishes waiting for me, I don't think they'll wash themselves."

He nodded his head in feigned agreement, but his thoughts weren't there, not on her dishes, "You okay?" she asked, pushing back her chair and rising.

"I'm fine," he again muttered, picking at the right corner of his poem with the edge of his thumb. She smiled, put her hand on his shoulder, and turned. He watched her walk away toward the exit. She opened the door and walked out...never looking back.

He looked again at the poem and turned it over, placed his right finger tips on the page and straightened it slightly and read.

The poem had been a failure...but he'd known it would be..he wondered why he'd shown her a poem he'd purposely written vague; but then he smiled as his ability to even be dishonest with himself--of course he knew why he'd wanted her to read it, and to understand it.

"No sense baiting a trap, if the prey isn't interested in the bait," he thought, then shrugged at his poor analogy. He picked up the poem and placed it in his briefcase, in a file with many other poems written in obscure language that she'd been unable to understand.

"There, I guess that's that," he reasoned, closing the briefcase and locking it. Standing, he walked over to a garbage can and gently placed the black leather case on top of all the other rubbish discarded as trash.