Sunday night I found myself seated in a house surrounded by strangers. I was drinking wine and rolling cigarettes, I was eavesdropping, eating vegetables and wishing the music was different.
I was at Foto's house with its mad Escher staircases and forbidden pianos. Foto was wrapping his wounds with his friends and keeping his walking sticks invisible. Foto wears a deliberate charm like its mascara but I don't mind, its not like he's masked in false lashes. He's hard to sit next to cause he's radiating heartbreak and the instructions clearly say duck and cover but I'm always trying to be a brick in other people's walls.
Foto is Superman's friend and I felt at first obvious and invasive, the way the women sat in a row across the room from me and the men wandered around arranging food and pouring wine. A skirted woman scoffed while Foto played his trumpet and Superman played the guitar.
I infiltrated a conversation about lipstick, I have a lipstick. I have a red lipstick in a metal tube. I tacked myself onto the end of the Grand Tour and played a single note on a forbidden piano. I told flat and irrelevant stories about nobody. I talked about guitars and nobody cared enough to ask me about anything like myself or the reason I was tap dancing alone.
By the end of the night I was drinking Superman's port out of his glass because I'd finished my own. I was trying hard not to sway to Tom Waits and I was reminded that there are people out there, people on streets or telephones.