It’s hard to fake it when you have a pink stamp on your left hand.  Clearly, I’d been out, and not at some local bar out; I was out out. The smile on my hand was my first tell.  My lack of saliva, the second.  The bitch of it is, I wasn’t really planning on going out at all.  I was heading home, rubbing my eyes, but then I worried if I’d gone straight home, I’d have had less of a weekend. My Friday night would have ended before it began.  I wanted a beginning.

If I’d gone home, now would be Saturday light out instead of Saturday 3:10 am dark out with corner Gray’s Papaya breath.  I’d have had less of a weekend if I’d just left work and landed here.  But when you invited me to meet you at the bar Friday after work, all I could think was, “to hell with people.”  I didn’t want to do the small talk, the "No, really?  And, how was your day?" thing.  I didn’t want to do impressions.  I wanted to relax, and that’s the last thing I’m doing when I’m majoring in perception with a minor in trying.  So I said I was going home straight from work, “too tired,” I yawned.  I meant it.  But the bar where my friends were was remotely on my way to a cab, so why not?  I’m sure you’ll have issues with it, even if I never hear them.  I’ll see them and taste them in your afternoon kiss.  “I thought you were too tired,” you’ll prompt.  You want to know why I didn’t find you.  Why wasn’t I with you?  I would ask all those same things if I were in your black shoes.  I’d take it personally.  But from my blistered feet, I know it has nothing to do with you and everything to do with effort; I was spent.

I didn’t feel like people.  I felt like person.  Connect with one, unplanned, spontaneous, right after work, how can I make your life better?  Sauvignon Blanc, that’s how.  And now it’s 3:15 am, still dark out, make up off, in my sweats, and I’m home, with the DVD going, a minty mouthwash mouth, a bun, and a bed.  And yeah, a tell of a stamp reminding you I had a life without you all night, by choice.