Me at a Party.

I wrapped my fingers around my glass of champagne and painted a smile on
Wondering if my desperation to fit in was obvious
Painful and stitched awkwardly on my crinkled up face,
I've stopped trying not to flirt.  It's the way I relate to people.
I sit in the Victorian chair that sinks in the middle
I check on my orange backpack in the corner - still certain no one is stealing from it
The scant change in the purple pleather wallet
The greasy caked cell phone my daughter's fingers have wept on.
The room is buzzing with extroversion and sex.  Drunkenness and the wish to be drunk.
Player pianos and those who can really play.
I clap politely in all the right places.
I make it obvious I am not hitting on your girlfriend or boyfriend or estranged cousin.
My exit is painful.
It is easier to bow and gesture to the technicians.
I prefer that sort of socialization.