It’s the way he looks at me really —

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We are not together. We arrive separately. We know each other’s names. We are surrounded by mutual friends.

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It’s the way he stops — to look at me really —

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Constant rounds of drinks are being cycled through the crowd. The chatter. The banter. The sudden glass kissing the concrete. The oohs. The ahhs. Some strangers cheer. At least one oompa!

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Laughs and gossip continue. Accusations. Denials. Self-deprecations. Inhalation of the ever-present scent of forsaken vomits and the over-estimated cleaning products. Our crowd gets bigger. Gets rowdier.

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It’s the way he pauses — from the crowd — and looks at me really —

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I feel his eyes take audience of me. They feel like the sun on my cheek, instinctively encouraging me to face toward him. Like a flower to its natural source. I look directly at the blue suns. I do not mind the blindness.

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He smiles an ultraviolet smile and does not turn away. He’s pleased he’s been caught. I’m pleased he’s been caught. So I reciprocate. No words. Just ultraviolet. Several seconds pass between us.

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It’s the way he smiles — to look at me really —

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He breaks first. As he does. I follow. As I do. A staring game gone unclaimed. We arrive again separately to our mutual friends. To the next round of drinks. To the plot of where-to-next. To a flower following the suns.

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It’s the way he looks at me really —