“I will beat him up for you,” 
my Hungarian carpenter says,
learning of the boyfriend
who’s moving ten states away
and hasn’t called for days,
hasn’t said he’ll miss me.
He’ll be gone in a day or two—
he hasn’t even told me
exactly when he’s leaving.

Over coffee, before he starts working,
the carpenter says,
“Tell me more. Maybe I can tell you
why this happened.”
I give him a brief rundown,

He sips. Runs his hands through
white curls, asks,
“How many men have you made cry?”

“None,” I say.

“That’s too bad.” Shakes his head.
“Let me tell you a little story.
Years ago, I lost my job and my girlfriend.
I lived across from a Barnes and Nobles.
Every day I went there and read four, five
self-help books. Then I put them
back on the shelf.
The best one was called
How to Be the Kind of jerk
Women Fall For.
You should study this.
You are too innocent.”

I sip too. I think maybe he’s right.
I think I might have made my lover cry
if only I’d told him how much it hurt
to lose him.
That last night, when a shadow crossed my face,
he’d asked, “What are you thinking?”
“Nothing,” I answered.
What I’d been thinking was, 
This may be the last time I see you.
It was.
I said “nothing” to shield him from guilt
over my pain.
Not to make a scene.

Maybe some day
I should make a man cry.

The carpenter resumes.
“He didn’t even bring you flowers!
In Hungarian we say a man like that
has a heart—.” He scowls,
flicks dismissive fingers at his chest.
“What is that in English?”

“Cold? Cold-hearted?” I offer.

“We say he has 
a hairy heart.”

For the first time in three days
I laugh.
It’s the first step towards becoming
hairy-hearted.
                        

Her thumb stabbed into
the intact globe, then
she ripped off the peel,
filling the room with
bitterness.
				“I’m disappointed,”
				she said,
				“with the quality of your work.”
She sucked a section,
chewed, 
swallowed,
				“I really don’t think,”
tore off
and consumed
another.
				“you’re working out.”
She dissected the fruit,
ate, 
dabbing at the juice dribble
on her chin and mouth.
				“I’m going
She devoured it all
at last,
				“to have to”
collecting the pits
and discarded skin
				“let you”
on a napkin
she had ready.
				“go.”