Happy hour.

Hold the happy.

Name tag slapped on like a disguise,
     smile dialed to "professional,"
     holding court near lukewarm sliders

     and someone’s second-best anecdote.

I'm here,
    in body.

But mind?
    Already at Irby's,
    hand finding yours without ceremony.

Time slows before the hug hits—
     Proven Science.

The minutes between now and then
    stretch like caramel,
    sweet but sticky,

    dragging across the tongue of the day.

I sip a beer I don’t want,
  nod at a story I won’t remember,
  nod again for safety—

  while your voice is threading the back of my mind,
  reruns of your laugh queued up on loop.

Coal’s probably tucked under something soft,
       ears twitching at thunder.

And you?

Somewhere with just enough to do
 to keep from climbing the walls,
      already counting the exits,
            already halfway here.

Me too.

Every laugh feels borrowed.
Every conversation off-tempo.
Nothing syncs— until you do.

So let 'em call this happy hour—
   let 'em toast and chatter and kill time.

Me?

I’ll be over here,
         stalling,

     stretching this placeholder beer into a prelude,
     waiting on *our* hour—

     the only one that really counts…

     to finally begin.