That year she was reading Sartre,
We would sit in the cafe beside her university
And watch the waiters,
She’d make judgements on their core being
Saying their efficiency
Was an articulation of bad faith.
"Yes but the service is excellent." I’d say.
Outside even the tramps looked employed,
Stripping the bins and coin slots
With the swiftness of assembly line workers,
Only the students looked languorous
Sat in flocks, chatting idle in the sun.
At night their terrible music played down the hall.
I’d find myself unable to concentrate,
Hesitating above her impeccable body,
Increasingly aware of my inauthenticity,
Bad faith playing in my bones
Like a defective dance.
I took to sitting in cafes alone then.
While later she married an architect
And said she was happy.
It always bothered me what lie it was
She finally managed to accept.