I Am Pretending There Was No Restaurant

as though the ocean swept it away like a sand dune.
If I pretend there was no restaurant then I never
saw your glossy eyes, where the old man
who’d sit at the counter each day
said I can tell he’s a pervert. Just look at his eyes.
But if there was no restaurant then there was no old man
and if I pretend there was no restaurant—two streets away
from your apartment—then you never walked in
one evening, before your baseball game,
sat at the counter and asked What’s good here?
If I pretend there was no restaurant,
then you never watched me,
the way one mutes their television,
as I told you tortilla soup was good.
You never asked me to refill your ice tea,
never tipped the amount of the check.
No, if I pretend there was no restaurant,
as though somehow a hole just sucked it right up,
then you never came in every Saturday for months
asking So when are we going to go out?
You never waited, like a dog waiting for his bone,
as I paused, pulled you closer,
the way I’d tug the thin string of a kite,
and said Maybe next time.
If I pretend there was no restaurant,
then I never said yes and each yes
that followed unravels like the yarn of an old quilt
and you are just a piece of dust
I rubbed out of my eye
a long time ago.