Meeting with divorce lawyer
She wore the black dress—
not by accident.
Sat too straight in the leather chair,
legs crossed,
one foot swinging—slow, deliberate.
He read the papers out loud,
pages thick with the ending.
She watched his mouth,
the careful words
built from Latin and loss.
She answered each question
with too much eye.
He spoke of division—
of property,
of custody,
of irreconcilable things.
She uncrossed her legs,
then crossed again.
His pen clicked, restless.
She leaned in,
brushed her hair behind one ear,
said these things happen,
said it’s not always the man’s fault.
He smiled—small, unsure.
Outside, rain drew streaks down the window.
Inside, her pulse kept time
beneath the silk of her sleeve.
The talk turned slower—
an old house,
a garden,
how winter comes too early here.
At the door, he reached for her coat.
She let his hand linger.
In the elevator mirror,
she watched him not watch her,
his reflection shifting,
buttons undone.
By morning, the papers would still be waiting—
unsigned,
unsettled.
And outside,
the city would go on—
grinding through its daily separations.
