She sat on the arm of the couch
as if she belonged there. Her angel
red lipstick perfectly lined and glossed.
Her strappy high heels and diamond belt
out of place at ten o’clock on Wednesday
night. Her friends called every thirty
minutes on her pastel pink Motorola,
a real Comso girl with blond highlights
and oversized silver hoop earrings.
He sat next to her on the couch making
me an intruder in my own house, talking
to her in the voice once reserved for me
softened and smiling. I am inconsequential,
unnoticed three feet behind them.
I wonder if it matters to me, their relationship,
their friendship. It is not the affection
he gives her, but that my dog lays beside her
and enjoys the touch of her long, vibrant pink nails.
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