i must have missed something in the invite, but there he was, eating the same greasy food as i, hating on the same mic hog during the inevitable karaoke session in the birthday party of our mutual friend tonight. we studiously steered clear of each other but the birthday bitch sort of had us talking—if you could call it that—to each other at some point in the night. he asked me how i was. “i’m good, i think,” i quickly answered. he did not say anything back nor did i elaborate. for a moment, near where the mango cake was clotting in its own frosting, we just lingered, wallowing in the vast majesty of a lie.
later, juiced by a couple of red horse beer, i heard myself lording over a conversation and, at times, seeing myself wildly gesticulating as if drawing with a sparkler in the air.