Icarus's blog: "Augurs, Martyrs, and Agnostics"

I remember where I was standing.
What you had ordered to drink.
I remember being more than ready to go.
Exhausted.
Dragged.
Henpecked.
Heaving in a filthy bowl.

I remember your tight
balled fist against my cheek
the wobble on my heels
and the complete lack of surprise I felt.

The floor was cheap and velvety,
tattered.
I could feel it through my shoes,
chase it up the walls.

I had time to evaluate the chintsy
ridiculous themed decorations
and the poor, restauranty at close-hours lighting.

I counted barstools
made a guess at the cleanliness of the just wiped counters and tables
I measured the very stunned
very concerned looks on your friends' faces,
and the corrective step I took back.

The very deliberate attempt to keep my composure.
That forced, expectant, selfish laugh that burst from between your ribs and stomach

A man I once suspected of fucking you
told me to call him if I ever needed a place to stay.
Your sister was there.

And I drove us all home.
We even slept in the same bed.