I’m not sure about the beginning –
that I’d done my homework in advance
to show I’d listened
and that I knew at least some small detail.
But I’m fairly certain about the rest.
A better woman wouldn’t have told you
all the truth of her mind,
at least not so quickly.
A worse woman would have pretended
just to agree with you about it all,
or to pretend your word was gospel.
A better woman would have watched herself,
been more reserved in gaze and movement.
A worse one wasn’t worried
about touching your fingers
as she shared the glass with you,
or about touching up her makeup
in the restroom mirror
while we waited for the next round.
A better woman wouldn’t have felt pride
when the younger couple next to us
asked if it was our first time in the city.
A worse woman would have pulled you
off that elevator
and kissed you,
that glass still in your hands,
consequences be damned.
A better woman wouldn’t have fallen for you,
the possibility being nearly nothing.
A worse one did, regardless.
MensaBlondEsq 