A scene set to the purr of a jazz quartet
The door swings open and in she steps.
He loses control of his lower jaw,
She stumbles as her shoe catches on the floor. They meet with timid smiles and fragile eyes, And wrestle with words to break the ice.
Talk turns to the menu, and ideas for a starter, Perhaps a soup, with a side of nervous laughter?
Rehearsed lines give way to the uncharted,
Leaving a comfort zone which was once well-guarded. As the cutlery collapses on a weary plate,
Thus rises a tally of flaw and charming trait.
The ebb and flow of conversation pursues
The raw magnetism of their similar views.
Wine bottles collect like a curious crowd,
With complaints that the table’s too loud.
The inferno mellows to a merry bonfire,
And their youthful tongues begin to tire.
A rash comment escapes, cue widened eyes.
Alas! The electric discussion burns out and dies. Smile turns to frown, out leaps a disgusted scoff: “It’s getting late. I’d better be off”.
What was written in the stars has now been erased, And the singletons leave, both red-faced.