friday night

in the absence of a patio we sat in the sunporch, resting on antique wooden dining chairs too refined for the quality of language and victuals. our feet were up on the sill, windows open. he leaned slightly out, watching the breeze catch his cigarette smoke and wisp it away. i balanced the plate of take out pasta on my lap, beer in hand, and speculated upon the fiscal circumstances of the man pulling up for pizza across the street. i gestured extravagantly, narrowly avoiding losing both my beer and my dinner to the tiled floor. he looked at me amused - brow furrowed in the way it sometimes does. i can tell that he's not sure how to take me - not sure how to tell when i'm seriously empassioned and when i'm just playing for the crowds. after all, the world is just a stage, and we had the front row seat.