a luncheon date

His wife had died, but, then,
she had died long ago for him,
a man with many opportunities
few of them ignored. Playing sorrow,
his ears still ringing with her eulogy,
he purred an invitation for lunch to me.
Seduction his avocation,
easily recognized in his voice,
slithering into my ear with audible pleas.
Well, why not? Let's hear his spiel.
Luncheon dates were few and far between.
And free food is good.
"I'm rich," he said, smiling his implant smile.
So many people are, tell me, what else are you?
"I own a home here, another there."
Sounds like a lot of upkeep to me.
"Let me show you my country club condo."
No thanks, I've seen it before.
"Give me your phone number."
It's in the book.

Yet,
he brought me a rose, perfect and pure.
I carried it in the cafe, and into the car, and at home
it curled, cool and fresh on my kitchen table.
I even photographed it in the buttery summer light
knowing it was my last rose.