Wednesday, February 06, 2008
Couples pass between us as their cocktails catch the light.
Her influence is like a dance. Or a structure.
Her presence combines the angles of her body, their movements, the color of the night.
A question slips through the noise about a favorite restaurant. White hair, pearls, and a brutal perfume. The old woman laughs and touches her arm.
Her eyes sparkle hotter than the candles in the low light.
No, she said.
Her earrings flare with the shake of her head. Bloodstone and aquamarine.
I didn't hear the second question. I don't care to hear it. Just how the people say it. How they move. I can hear their thoughts in the tilt of their head, their expectations. She gives it to them so I don't have to. Not right now. Not this moment.
Someone is watching me watching her.
When I don't move, people tend not to see me.
My eyes flick over, penetrating, but the other one drifts away.
I'm with her now, and her portrait of angles. Her presence is on my fingers like pigments. She likes when I paint her.
I'm smiling now. And the currents shift, flowing away from her and toward me.
She fades to find herself a drink. And quiet.
And as she stands in the shadow unseen, I feel her stare touching my angles, my influence.
Then, her eyes will turn. She will find someone.
Watching her watching me.