A Happy Ending? Sure Enough

We’ve sitting at the kitchen table in just our T-Shirts
eating the remains of a bag of micro-wave popcorn.
It’s after midnight. The room is softly lit by the vent
over the stove. Several moments pass before I answer.
“I don’t know any Italian and neither do you”, I say,
after she suggest we escape the next Armageddon by
hiding out in some Italian village tucked away in the
mountains. “Sure you do--pizza, spaghetti, caffe latte,
bravo, opera, mamma mia”, she assures me, counting
the words off on her fingers. She has green eyes that
sparkle when she wants to make a point. I have eyes
that have always remained eyes and not the doorways
I’d hoped for. When my wounds heal the skin is always
a bit thicker than before and the scars somehow look
like train tracks. We have shared our annoyances for
years but even now occasionally grope for each other in
a parked car or on the back stairs of a movie theater
in spite of the fact that the view is never softer, even
through glass. We don’t call it love, but when I find
myself sleepless she never seems to run out of
lullabies. I’m confident that when I’m with her I’m
bound to get my emotional money’s worth. It’s during
those times that I’d take off my very hands and give
them unselfishly to her without hesitation. I’d have no
problem imaging myself useless. I could part with my
stone that hasn’t hit the bottom yet, if it meant her
planks of wood would be my dock, but she’s already
told one pet rock is enough.