Six saturdays in a row

She came around, 

She stopped by the pub

asked for muddling sugar, bitters, whisky and citrus rind, 

she waits.

As he made her drink,

He watches her,

From the corner of his eyes

He stares.

From her jet black leather bag

She took her phone

She begins to type


And stayed there for hours.

The third Saturday was empty

He waited, patiently,

He check his time

She should be here by now

He said

He watched between tables

No sign of her.

He wondered

Did someone found her?

Was she death?

Has she left?

He asked himself.

the fourth Saturday was sober 

He caught glimpse of her 

At the door

Her smile, wild

Her scent, divine.

Time tiptoed 

Her absence

made his time there useless

He was sad and mad 

At the same time.

On the sixth Saturday 

She appeared 

Like a ghost

whispers into his ears

Am leaving

For good

I will miss your muddling sugar, bitters, whisky and citrus rind, 

she says

Just then, he cried

within himself

Happy tears

But only him knew why.