A Nicholas Sparks Matinee

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They walked up to my register as 
Nicholas Sparks as possible. 
Twenty-something’s rounding life’s corner
all white-teethed and primed.  

She’s scarfed suspiciously for late spring,
her hair billowing forth like chestnut smoke. 
He, like her, dresses handsomely.
I ask them questions and they play couples roulette
better than the last few.
  
His interest in whatever they’re doing 
here isn’t particularly important.
She chooses, smiling insanely. 
It’s a romantic comedy. 

I automate the cost aloud. 
There is a moment of evolutionary consequence. 
Both fumble about their persons for wallets,
though she’s too quick about it; she’s got her card out already but plays the skittish deer.
​
He turns his pockets,
then proceeds to security pat-down.
They pause, facing each other.
This is supposed to be the part
where chivalry quiets the afternoon.

Hopefully it rains- he can kiss her in it.

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