He sat at a quiet table in the corner

He sat at a quiet table in the corner

In the shade of a large Monstera

Where waxy leaves cast intricate shadows

Over a pristine white tablecloth

Without a hint of a crease

Whatever happened to the red wine stains

How many people had spilt their secrets

Sitting opposite one another

Hoping not to be hurt

Believing the promises made

The sincerity of the smile

Hoping their first impressions were the right ones

The first disagreement

Over a triviality would be the last one.

He chose to sit there for privacy

Nobody could sit behind him

Overlooking his choices

Second-guessing his decisions

He didn’t need to whisper

But he did

Conversations were tricky with a memory.

Intimacy imagined

Romance in retrospect

Anything was possible

In a dreamscape

The Queen sharing a marmalade sandwich

With Paddington

Putin showing humility

Lovers switching off their phones

Awkward silences when the novelty

Wore off.

He was a master of disappearance

Practised in the art of concealment

Like a sniper, without a gun

He could lie camouflaged,

In full view for hours

And remain invisible.

He was a secret agent

Mixing his metaphors in a cocktail shaker

Waiting for the moment

When the planets aligned

And the shadows cast

Threw a cloak across the moon

Covering his escape

To the safety of his room

Where he could count his blessings

In silence

His identity still unknown

Even to himself

Isolation was less an imposition

And more a morbid fear of visibility.