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.