Stranger's Coat

She's wearing herringbone, the kind that says I dressed for someone who hasn't looked up yet. He's in corduroy worn soft at the elbows — a man who leans on every bar he's ever loved. She stirs her drink left-handed, he talks to the olive — neither one asking for a translation. Stranger's coat draped on a stranger's chair, the lining shows — she let it fall the way you let things fall when you've decided they're not yours to carry. The collar's turned, the stitching frays, and someone at the next table is taking notes. He reaches for the bread the same second she pulls back — that choreography of almost, every couple rehearses it. She laughs at something pitched below what's funny, and his shoulders do that thing shoulders do when laughter lands a quarter-inch from where it was aimed. The velvet on her cuff catches light like an alibi. Stranger's coat still on the chair, the wool remembers shapes it's held — shapes of someone who gave up on standing straight. The sleeve falls open, shows the seam, and someone at the next table knows the thread. She leans in like a secret — he leans back like a door. His collar: pressed this morning, wrinkled now — the estimate. And the woman two stools over with the bourbon and the view — she has seen this coat before. She has worn this coat before. She is wearing it right now. Stranger's coat — mine all along, the lining shows, I let it fall the way I let things fall when I've decided they're not mine to carry. The collar's turned, the stitching frays, and no one at the next table is going to tell