I’m looking at him and the noise reduces.
No, the people are still talking and the party is still on. The discussion about Arsenal and Manchester won’t stop and it never will. The song is something I would have skipped on the player – you can’t even dance on this shit – and the girls are looking so beautiful – I’ll always wonder what they do to look that way.
Maybe they smile. I don’t know.
I can see them sitting together; whispering something, almost holding hands and something in me wants to smile but a bigger part feels like an intruder into their private moment. Of course, nothing’s up between them, but something could have been, had the time been right.
I’m standing still in the corner of the large room and there seems to be nothing I want to do to change this. I don’t like this but I don’t care enough to change it. Lips. On the neck. Yes, one guy’s out of his chair and has run out of points to argue against the other and needs a new distraction. Alright, come here. Your girl is just floating about in her own house, at her own party. Waiting for validation of her existence from you.
But I look at him, in his corner of brightness and flaw and perfection and I know there, there is my conversation.