i first met you in a bar.
one scotch, on the rocks
you said. the finest you have,
you said.
i asked you if you had a tough
day at work.
i slid the glass over, and two of your fingers
darted out and caught it
almost without thinking.
yes, you said.
we exchanged names and shook hands.
i remember this: your hand,
it felt like ink and paper
and winning and money.
you said something about law.
something about needing
a precedent to overturn.
i said, what if there is no precedent?
you looked up, eyebrow raised,
and asked me to explain.
you sat up straight when you did that,
and your ten thousand dollar
tom ford suit straightened out
at the edges, too.
and suddenly i was saying
everything i knew about law:
anything and everything.
i said things a bartender's daughter
had no business knowing.
things i'd stayed up all night
to read, but i didn't care
because it was worth it.
you looked at me differently then,
almost considering.
we stared at each other and
you said you wanted to hire me.
i laughed because - because.
you said you weren't joking.
i said you were drunk,
and maybe you were saying
this because you were drunk.
you said, i'm not drunk.
i wasn't so sure. your eyes
were hangdog, and your skin
smelled like expensive cologne
and the finest scotch i had.
i said, maybe.
you said, of course. take your time.
but you were smirking at me.
even you knew,
in the end,
i would surrender.