When he kissed me on Friday, he didn’t taste sweet. I sweep my tongue over my bottom lip. He tasted like beer and fried food.
Michael rumbles happily and leans back in his chair, the metal legs creaking a protest. He sips on his ice tea as the ladies chat.
I watch him covertly.
I see the way he takes care of his mother, adding the artificial sweetener to her drink, unwrapping the tissue paper around the bright red leather purse she’s purchased, retrieving the phone she drops.
I notice how she leans into him, how she gazes proudly at him when he isn’t looking, how she smiles at his jokes.
Michael’s mother loves him and he loves her. I drift closer to their table, secure in my invisibility, not as secure about my self-worth. I loved my mother and that love hadn’t been enough for her. After my father went to prison, she skipped town and never looked back, leaving her fourteen-year-old daughter to fend for herself. I did fend for myself because, as Blaine tells me, I’m strong, stronger than both of my parents.
Right now I don’t feel strong. I’m envious and lonely and needy. The cat woman looks up from her heavily sweetened pomegranate ice tea and meets my gaze. Her face contorts, her eyes appearing sympathetic, almost pitying.
I pivot on my heels and hurry out the door before she brings my presence to Michael’s attention. I might not know what else I want, from him or Blaine or anyone else. I do know I don’t want to be pitied.