It was a face that I'd traced over tententen twentytwenty thirtymaybefortythreeandahalf times before. Something deliciously unsettling, I couldn't bear to turn away, ice-struck ice-killer, frozen solid into a gaze that I didn't sharpen. Did not perfect.

You always cross the street if the other sidewalk is emptier. I love dinner parties. The overly climactic human gaze at humor that spills green and inky out of purple mouths marked by red wine and something made from rhubarb and someone's husband's addiction to vampy lipstick. The respiting shoulders on load bearing, scoliosis impending, cervicalthoraciclumbarsacrumcoccyx columns that sigh into the arms of worn out couches and pool table innings. And you know how much I love the smell of it, from all the times I've asked you how you like my cologne and favorite candles. Sweaty and sarcastic and full of garlic and that one friend's income taxes burning by the candlelight. I chose Sweet Tobacco though you said you liked Moccato Cherry. Never particular about the company, usually. I wouldn't think you a fan of dinner parties, your telling affection for quietdark. But you like bread and salmon and olives on sticks and martinis and, even though this, I didn't think I'd find you at the feast. On the silver platter. Girls' fingers in your mouth like a pig with an apple, but still oinking. Deep and Breathy and Staring Me In The Eye With A Smile. I heard it down the hallway, thought you were waiting, dirtyputrid, goodtimegirlstupid, just getting the stove hot.