All through the dinner
I kept schtum as a cup hook. The exit was a matchbox lined with false leaves and fishing pleasantries. I poked at
a realistic flitch of lamb, admired the graphics of the mashed potato. It was just like being there except I was. I excused myself
as often as decently possible
and then some. An ersatz peacock exploded in sprays of delight.
The sommelier began evading my eye. A halo made a pitstop on pap’s cranium. Speech!
Toast strangers with empty glass. Gracehopers on zimmerframes. Mermaids lipsticking memoirs on bathroom mirrors. You could just break like a table leg.
The cheeses must endure such leering, such inquisitions. Trifle descends in merciless toboggans. I wasn’t made for these situations. I’m not a person
who mingles easily. I’m not a person, properly speaking.
Best wishes, whoever they are.