Bad Party

She smiled and laughed and socialized. Her eyes do not lie; she wanted to be somewhere, anywhere, else. I could see them, brown and so dark, above smiling painted red lips which might have as well been on a clown or marionette performing for an audience. She sipped on a drink too shallow. I watched those about amused at the smalltalk, all of it meaning nothing, and saw in their eyes the awareness of exactly where the door led to. I'd be discusted, later, at the glitterless party stocked by people considering what was on the weather channel or the number of tiles in the ceiling or how bad that dress looks.

I was happy to be there with her, my heart beating faster each time I saw her. She'd "cleaned up" in a way that caused more than my head to turn. She talked pleasantly, a chore I could not keep up. Watching her, it was impressive and sadening at the same time. Archtypes and sterotypes filled the room with a few real people peering through masks. Thinking back, it was like a bad sitcom, maybe a soap opera. Shame it was a cash bar.

Well, we took care of that after we left.

Some time ago, I decided that I would live life with no regrets. Wouldn't life be so much nicer with an edit feature.

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