Voice almost as distinctive as fingerprints
an identifier and confirmer.
Her hair was still dark
improbably monotone for the years
the glasses may have been real, or fashion accessory
imagination imagined, adding fullness for the years
subtracting the spectacles.
It might be her
then voice, overheard in the lobby
eliminated all doubt.
Matching rings on marital fingers, standing together –
quietly with affection.
I remember working together I thought her a junior,
trying to be senior,
tame wanting to be an adventurer –
a medium personality counterfeiting XXS,
someone constantly straining to be something she wasn’t.
She collected the tickets, they left
outside away from the lights they crossed the street, arm in arm
two middle-aged women content, and happy.
No masquerade. No pretence.