You would think that being alone would be difficult,
in a house full of people.
There is one other person I know,
besides you and the person throwing the party.
(He's on the phone)
I stand, alone, in the kitchen.
You, oh. I dunno...
You're somewhere (I guess)
So I just stand, hugging my arms to myself
watching the timer blink slowly down from 30 minutes.
I listen to various cars pull up
and the hurried introductions.
(and I try not to listen as the group of girls
sprawled around the... living room?
talk of which drugs they brought,
how much, and when...)
My ex is outside smoking,
along with another girl whose face I know
(but name I can't recall...)
Somewhere, a cell phone rings,
and is picked up with a giggly hellll-ooh?
She mentions something about bringing alcohol
and I turn away to stare again at the timer,
counting down the final seconds
I search the kitchen blindly before a pair of
arms in dark red silk gloves slips into
view on my right, grabs two floral-printed
hot pads sitting clearly (obviously...) on the
counter and opens up the oven, pulling out the
mottled pink cake.
"Looks like crap." the glove-wearer comments.
"Probably tastes like crap too." I reply.
We giggle, introduce ourselves and poke at the
supposed "birthday cake" with a butcher knife pulled from
the wooden block sitting crookedly on
the crumb-scattered counter.
Someone in that group of girls calls her name though,
and again I'm alone in the kitchen.
You run, or more like bound, down the stairs and
smile as you see me.
The "host" of this party, until now absent-
out somwhere in the front yard I guess-
walks over with even more people
(how many have I met already?)
and runs down the list of names
(I'll never remember them...)
He picks up his camera from the table
and motions for us to pose for a picture
(I try and fake a smile...)
"No! Let's get a 'happy couple' picture...
like... put your arm around her!"
You do, and the camera flashes on my smile.
(no longer fake...)