The Party

I stand in the corner

drink in hand

a prop really

something to swirl

something to look at

I look up, for a cursed half second

and catch eyes with someone

 

they smile

knowingly

I return that knowing smile

while wondering how heavy

a small handgun would feel in my hand

while dreaming of shooting each one

of their gleaming, white teeth

right out of their head

 

then that familiar bolt of reality strikes

I remember that I do not own a gun

have never even held one

that I, that no one, would be an accurate enough shot

that inevitably, the new carpet

would be ruined