I am sure she was relevant once,
the center of the vortex
at nightclubs and beach parties.
Her trilling laugh carrying over the music
and a hair flip to inspire Pantene commercials.
She would have been surrounded by semi-desperate
devotees searching for acceptance,
who only knew she was fun and the object
of affection from the pretty and popular people.
She played the crowd,
used ‘my dear’ and a light touch to get drinks,
a press of flesh and unspoken promises
to get anything else.
Now she has crow’s feet and an ongoing
battle against grey,
she talks too loud for the suburban dinner crowd
and gestures with her salt-rimmed shot glass
to make a point.
She takes the shot with a flourish,
performing for her audience,
her husband sips his beer and turns
to the TVs pretending interest in ESPN.
The rest of the bar crowd is there to eat —
somewhere for an adult to sit
without waiting for a table — with a self-imposed
two drink max with our dinner.
We make an effort to ignore the tequila-enhanced noise,
remember some antics from our own youth — some fondly —
and move our judgment meter from slight annoyance
to a small measure of pity.
shared at dVerse