Collateral

She’s talking about the music and the lights

and how the sangria was perfectly sweet.

She’s listing the names of those Saturday nights

while I’m sitting here, staring down at my feet.

She doesn't know she’s twisting a knife in my side

by describing the rooms where I wasn't a guest.

She thinks we are even, with nothing to hide,

while I’m feeling the hollow expand in my chest.

My tea has gone cold in the ceramic rim,

with a thin, oily film floating over the top.

I watch her face, so bright and so trim,

and I wait for the story to finally stop.