Candlelight, Lovers, and Me

The candle glow from the walls highlight their faces. Their eyes twinkle. Their lips curl in soft private smiles. Their arms drape casually, almost absent mindedly over each others’ chairs or shoulders. As they turn to speak to someone else, their fingers reach behind them and trace the seam going down the other’s thigh. A haphazard glance, a private laugh, unspoken messages through their eyes communicated across the crowed restaurant filled with their friends. The loud conversations, the distracting music in the background, the clatter of forks on china all impede my ears’ attempts to intercept the words spoken from pairs of lips into lovers’ ears. Still, my eyes rise to the occasion and absorb it all. Their beautiful faces, their unintentional glow, their contented happiness just behind the windows to their souls.
The candle glow from the walls color the hairs on my arms golden. My eyes do their best to look others in face and not stare at the table. My lips twist into the most convincing carefree grin I can conjure. My arms rest on the table; my fingers trace the edge of the corn chips before passing my lips. I do what I can to make my eyes turn up at the edges and emit a semblance of a glow so that the walls built up behind them are not as easily observed. I laugh, I hug, I say, “I love you,” and, “Happy Birthday,” and I mean them. I sit, I listen, I watch, I see all that I am not, all that I have lost, and maybe what I shall have again.
I wish I could hate the beauty of the commingled pairs on display. I wish I could. I can’t. There is love for the pairs, both as single bodies and united entities. There is rejoicing for them and pleasure taken from their happiness—there can be no hate.
There can be no hate, but there can be hurt. There can be the constant reminder of love lost and promises destroyed. There isn’t a hand on my shoulder. There isn’t a whisper in my ear. There isn’t a kiss upon my lips. There isn’t a companion by my side. He is elsewhere. He is not thinking of me. Nor will he.
There are chips, though, and taquitos masquerading as enchiladas. There is a dog waiting for me at home, who will cuddle up against my back as we sleep on the futon and try to convince me he is other than dog. There is ‘Will & Grace,’ ‘King of Queens,’ ‘Frasier,’ and ‘Friends’ to fill my ears with voices and laughter as I drift to sleep. There is ice cream to be eaten, papers to write, songs to hear, and emotions to feel. There are candles to light so that they may illuminate the truths of my life yet again.