The air is hungover with the anticipation of awkwardness.
Speaking frugally, we are dissolving conversations in the cocktails, thinking of formidable ways to overcome our anxiety.
All the while thinking to ourselves the virtues of a single malt.
Touching upon subjects of creation and annihilation, we succumb to the worldly ways of winning over a frivolous evening.
Surrounded by a handful, the pretense of these 6 minutes was hardly lost on our delusional manners.
Our words opened into a Juliet balcony and then restrung themselves over scattered, repeated motifs.
Who drew the first blood, was never known, but she and I were left pale, gasping for air.
We could feel the sentences evaporate into staggered glances at the bustling room.
Not soon enough, the outline of the corners of our lips widened to bid adieu and shut instantly.
Our eyes met briefly and then left each other, only to be reminded years later, of a misguided fantasy.
I left her, and she left me, deserted amidst our self loathing thoughts of another failure.
Another failure to make a friend in the overwhelming crowd, another failure to shatter through our shells, another failure to be one with what’s-her-name.