dinner and drinks.

Smoke rises in a trail and disperses, i look down and trace it back to your lips, red against your pale skin and the dark sky, your body gently lit by the glow from a kerosene lantern that slowly hisses, the only sound i pay attention to despite the smooth jazz soundtrack and the din of conversations about art galleries and their wine and cheese receptions, where you mingle with bureaucrats and bankers who'll pay thousands for that limited edition print of a perfect moment from our lives that you've captured on film, squeezing the soul from us with each flash.
And Paul leans in and whispers something in your ear, and you laugh politely because it's the thing to do but when you look at me i can tell you're miserable and i try hard to look like i care but it's forced because i don't and i wish you knew.