Party

"You look like a painting", she said, tracing her fingers on the red cotton that clung to my navel. I could feel your eyes tracing my lines. You pressed your fingers into her back. I could see her cleavage slightly when she bent over to feel the cloth against my thighs. Her brown curls bounced between us. "Please don't let them kiss", I thought, "Please don't let them kiss", but she continued to trace me - clinically almost, as if she were scientifically examining romantic roadkill.

I tried to laugh, but the sound was not mine. "Are you ok?" you asked, and I hated you then.

Later, grinding between you, I could feel your thighs, and her legs were curving into mine. The basement was dark, and smelled of sweat mingled with beer - a typical college smell, I guess. The songs were ones I did not know, and the alcohol tasted strange on my tongue.

You came after me when I ran out. "We'll walk you home", you said, and I hated you even more then.

I was a picture framed between your bodies, on a side-street in a crime-filled city, on a night when stars were too afraid to shine.