I should’ve worn the other dress,
the red one with the shitty zipper.
He isn’t looking at my brooch;
his eyes are disappearing into my cleavage—
What … distasteful language,
as if God had picked up an axe
and struck me right between the tits.
She placed her fork on the plate,
picked up the menu once again,
and pretended to study the desserts.
I should’ve worn my glasses;
these contacts are killing me.
Has a piece of broccoli just—?
She must think I’m staring at her breasts.
I swear on my mother’s grave
a piece of broccoli’s just dropped down her cleav—
Ooh. That’s a stunning piece of jewelry.
He took a sip of sauvignon blanc,
studied the restaurant logo on the menu she held up,
and ordered another bottle of wine.