the ballerina and her father

in a quiet

ornate dining room,

the ballerina sits

eating the evening meal

with her stern father.

the table,

fit for twelve,

stretches across the room,

fills only at the head

and to its right.

the silverware clinks,

pausing only when the linens

silently wipe the crumbs away.

taking a sip of wine,

her father continues

with his meal.

"a...

boy...came by today."

he lets it sit.

she stops eating

for a moment,

eyes wide and fixed

to her plate.

she swallows.

"yes?"

he cuts his steak.

"he left you something."

her father chews his bite slowly,

with intentfull nonchalance. 

she looks up at him,

anxious and puzzled.

upon finishing,

he places the folded scarf

on the table corner.

she looks at it,

the familiar color

clashing with the room's decor.

picking it up hesitantly,

she looks back to her father,

nervously.

"did he say,

did he say anything?"

he takes another sip of wine.

"hardly.

he just left it to the maid."

she looks down,

sadly,

and places the scarf

on her lap.

for a moment,

no one speaks.

she forces herself

to return to the meal

and her father

continues to eat

as if nothing had happened.

"are you quite certain

he said nothing?"

her father cuts a stem

of asparagus.

"father?"

he at last look at her.

"what is the meaning

of the scarf?"

taken aback,

she says nothing.

"i want to know

where that boy

got that scarf!"

timidly,

she turns once again to her plate,

hands clasped atop the scarf.

"i made it."

"i do not know where you met him

or why,

but i will not have my daughter

dancing around with a vagrant

(he lets it cut).

at least he had the sense

to realize his inadequacy

and know that he was no good

for you.

he does not wish or want to see you,

not ever again."

the ballerina jumps

from the table,

eyes and tears

buried in her hands.

her father just stands from his chair,

and wiping his mouth

on the scarf,

lights an evening pipe.