Creative writing on campus

Restaurant on Rye

My hands as soft as unsettled snow,

They're still injured from kneading bread dough.

While my eyes sprinkle them with hail,I notice him standing there as if behind a veil.

With a glance, I see his black suit and tie.

He's a stranger in a restaurant on Rye.

I rip at the cream's lid, its thin rim.

But when he sees me I'm suddenly aware

of every limb.

They're sucked into quicksand, unable to get out,

Wishing to move towards him, to

walk without doubt.

My face resembles the whitest bread;

He has eyes I have neither seen nor read.

My vision halts, my own hands a blur.

I try to hold my coffee and begin to stir.

I imagine what I'm wearing—what's he seeing?

A soft yellow dress— flowing and freeing.