He knew about the CIA. About Bolivia. Her Coke was sweating. She’d seen the movie. The T-shirts of Guevara in that iconic black beret in the days before the army had him cornered.
They gave him up for maize, he says. Laughs. Sizes-up the guests at nearby tables.
How had they connected on the Internet? What whispers answered to this date? Was it that
he could wrap her in the brute jacket of his ways? Save her from the habit of her fear
Of wooded trails in city parks, bus-stops
dim-lit garages, the streets
where globes illuminate her cultivated terror
He pays the check. Enables.
How do you know
the man you kill
is the man
you’re supposed to kill?
He wiggles his fingers.