Yes, it is Friday night, and yes,
by Tyler Martin
she is there all alone.
But no, she won’t turn back,
for this is why she came- -
to penetrate the hateful bubble.
If she could hotwire the simple interface
to manifest the rote revulsion,
the two of them could play around with,
just a little game of catch.
She looks around with binary expressions,
digging into pockets deep.
Instinctively she tugs her tresses,
hanging limply to the shoulder.
Flicking back her bangs from spite,
she feels a presence to her right.
Staring at her feet, she steals a glimpse
of Converse All-Stars, normal jeans.
Oh my god don’t chat me up,
she says out loud, too loud for reason.
All of the sudden a voice in her ear
commands her to get out of there.
Robotically she leaves the venue,
stands outside and thumbs a menu
shoved into her pocket
by the guy who stole her locket
the night she slept around with him,
and said he’d only give it back
if she would only have his back,
but everybody knows that’s wack.