not us (bar blah blah, christmas 1999.)

frame by frame in stilled sepia, we watched them roll up one after another,
spilling in off the street cheered unreasonably. seasonal delirium
drawn in by the warm, easy evening lights, and the complimentary house whites -

and the close-shaven bleach-teethed boys, sharply suited in similar mirror-imagery,
slickened and endeavouring to exchange cards and fashionably blueprinted exploits.
deep ugliness obscured by embossed lettering and expensive watches.

fondling the serving girls with immaculate hands - a hand on the arm, a paw on the thigh,
drunkenly gathering courage from your numbers as the room swelled and thickened,
dark with innuendo, dark with unsatisfied desires.

your pretty wife is expectant at home, patiently waiting, worried,
fluttering, holding out nervously for another tale of
how you were late christmas shopping or how you had a late meeting at the office,

while you smirked easily over the top of your drink at the blonde tizzied pink-skirted thing,
all coy - all shy wide smiles and expert blow jobs in the passenger seat
of your fancy new car. she's easily impressed, star-struck, taken.

cleaning and preening and posturing, prostituting herself - a technicolour peacock,
regrowth-plumed, flattered by a few well-placed words and a drink or two,
believing that you're different, that she's special - she's deluded you'll still love her in the morning.

as you left, you threw a knowing glance subtly to your friends pretending
they were looking elsewhere. they slyly slapped each other's backs, snickering hidden giggles,
and wishing they'd removed their rings too. i thought of you and i

sitting quietly amidst the din reserved, listening and watching -
shocked from speech, reverent hands clasped solemnly beneath the table,
promising each other silently that it would  never be like that for us.

that we were different.