Nodding Along

The host was talking about late-stage theory,

something about the collapse of the center,

and I just kept moving my head in a slow, steady rhythm,

like a toy on a dashboard.

I looked at my wine glass, the red liquid staining the sides,

and the oily thumbprint I’d left on the rim.

I was thinking about the way the light hit the rug

and how I’d forgotten to pay the electric bill,

while he waited for me to offer a counter-point.

It’s exhausting, the weight of a borrowed opinion.

I finally let the air out of my lungs and said nothing,

watching the ice in the bucket turn to water,

suddenly glad to be the stupidest person at the table.