She didn’t know where to set her glass,
the room so uniformly white and pristine,
her red, Chuck Taylor sneakers seemed an affront.
Furniture designed for clean lines
versus a back’s comfort.
Nowhere to lean in, curl.
Her home, decorated by a trail of dog hair,
mashed Cheerios and collage of sticky fingerprints,
all soft angles, rich colors, and deep cushions.
As he doggedly nudged a coaster in her direction
while she splashed Malbec on the pale rug,
she thought, “I’m done with match. com.”
But then remembering her long empty bed,
her painful yearning for a hand resting
on the small of her bare back,
she slid her tennis shoe over the spreading stain,
and tried to smile.