How it begins

                                      Her breath is rank with booze,

                                      she fumbles a carnation

                                      into his hand, murmurs

                                      I've always fancied you.

                                      A flurry of too-sweet scent

                                      catches in his throat;

                                      she whirls and titters

                                      at someone else's joke.

Published, 2000, in Snakeskin, September issue