Looking down my mans finely tailored shirt made of white cotton with multicolored threads.
I pucker stylishly in an attempt to kiss his crocheted collar. Falling into his sweetly scented neck I inhale deeply wishing we were nestled like tired travelers in bed instead of sitting upright in a ratty torn booth at Bella's.
Pushing and patting my food not tempted in the least to fork it into my foul mouth.
Instead wanting to disappear under the table and find my lost clogs.
Or head deeper into the dark sticky dirt of others sloppy ways.
Rocking to a beat no one else hears I fantasize about the rain and mists of places I've longed to go.
Someone speaks and I pretend to hear and smile my shy don't I have someplace better to be smile?
In my mind dissecting tweezers pull apart at cobwebs and corn syrup.
Coming out of the consuming fog I laugh rather cackle perhaps shriek more like shrill in response to abandoned humor.
Someone I know comes to squeeze in closely in the already full booth.
I profoundly wish he pulled an unoccupied chair up instead for he reeks of regrets.
Not just past crushing heartaches but present constant disappointments ride under his arm pits like big eared dogs in the wind.
Worrying the affliction could be contagious I resort to tuning out his odor and turn away from realizations and comparisons while balancing my fork on the edge of uncertainty.
He gets the hint and briskly leaves in an attempt to hide his ashamed patterns spreading a wake of silence in his trail as the rest of my friends recover from the botched surgery of his good intensions.