The bedroom door was locked
for a few disheartening minutes
at the party's drunken zenith--
it raised several stiff eyebrows
among the dizzy cocktail crowd.
"What's going on in there?"
a drinking buddy asked me.
"No idea," I lied, sucking harder at my rum.
The truth would've made me
seem quite the sudden hypocrite;
I prefer the slow-burn method:
such a tasteful crucifixion.
When the door opened again
we saw the tell-tale mirror compact
as it checked for evidence
but pretended not to notice.
"They were discussing Christmas presents,"
I fibbed through crooked teeth, well aware
he didn't give a damn about my gifts or me.
"All top-secret stuff."
That second line wasn't a stretch.
It's harder to feign naivety
than it is an air of splendor.
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