Painful. Agonizingly painful.
Two minutes into a piece entitled ‘The Courage of my Uvula,” I realized what I terrible mistake I had made. This was the last time I’d agree to attend a poetry reading. Patrice spotted me before I could escape. She looked thrilled to see me. Damn.
“Did you like it?” she asked, hopeful.
“Yeah,” I lied, “especially the vestigial organ metaphors. Tasteful.”
She beamed, then frowned. “I wish Chris were here.”
Lucky dead bastard. “He would’ve loved your poem,” I said instead. With a determined smile, I ordered another rum & coke. “Okay. Let’s hear the next one.”