That's what she told him,
and it wasn't even morning.
He looked at her like a tired old drunk,
home after closing again,
whose key wouldn't unlock the door:
sad and mournful and betrayed,
but also resigned, like he'd been expecting it
all along.
She had changed the rules on him,
he couldn't speak the language,
all the coins in his pockets had buffaloes
instead of eagles.
Irrelevant,
a voice in him whispered,
and the truth of it stung.
Stung far worse than her bland, milklike look
innocent of interest,
dulled by indifference.
"I packed you a lunch," she said, her voice
carrying the kindness one shows to strangers
or skinny dogs.