Glimmering Glow

Light glimmers from the cutlery,
from the women's necks, and the women's wrists.
The glimmer glows from the floral flux and the crystal clink.
It glimmers most from my yearning eyes
as my date sits down and she looks at me.

I wonder why she holds her cigarette like she's in a movie scene,
Grayscale Hollywood, the Golden Age.
I bet she pictures cameras on her all day everyday.
And why would any camera be aimed at any other?
Everything's in black-and-white but she's in Technicolor.
Oh my, oh God, too late does it occur
that I've been staring for too long
and I haven't said a word.

Turns out talking to her is like unwittingly biting
into one of those decorative plastic fruits.
(Break, eager teeth.)
I also learn her hair is dyed:
she was never a redhead, just a mortal brunette like me.
And I begin to question my own authenticity,
and to wonder why I forced myself to leave the house.
But tonight, I will feign a smile and a laugh,
for my self-worth rides on how good a time she has.

And if I get drunk,
would that brighten things?
Or will I end up
on the floor again,
to wake up half-dead, cursing myself
and the things I probably said?
Or did?
I guess I'm willing to take the risk.

We try the wine,
I turn to see her.
I find it sweet,
she finds it bitter.

She has this face,
it says outright:
I'm a mere black blotch
in her lilac light.

I ask her for a dance, she says she'd rather not.
She lets ash fall from her hand onto the tablecloth.
She seems to be unheeding when faced with fragile things.
She'd probably catch a butterfly and strip it of its wings.

I look around the ballroom and past nights spring up.
Weddings I went to with Valerie plague my memory:
back when she was my girl, back when I was loved.
My shirt is too tight and my bowtie is killing me,
what can I do but choke up?

And like Valerie,
she's grown bored of me
and fond of a man
on a nearby seat.

And I take another swig.