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Impossible Standards

Terry J. Allen

Impossible standards just make life
difficult, she said, above the buzz
of Spike’s birthday bash, trying her best
to be attractive, charming, witty
and memorable in her new scoop neck,
deep magenta, peasant blouse.

It was raining outside and those on the deck
had already retreated into the great room,
careful to bring the bruschetta, canapés,
and smoked eggs with them.

You have to try the pinot noir,
her voice broke above the waves of chatter
and laughter as she held her glass under my nose.
It has wonderful berry overtones.

I’ll stick with my beer. Thanks.

Are you two together? the youngish man in the yellow
cashmere sweater asked, glancing at
us as he tried to balance his plate and scotch
whiskey at the same time.

Yes, I said, into my glass.

He nodded and walked away,
as if that confirmed some important
piece of information needed later when detectives
grilled him about where he was last Friday evening.

I watched him through the bottom
of my glass, when she touched my arm,
saying something out of the corner of her mouth
as she somehow still managed to smile
at a couple across the room by the Orchid Cactus.

What was that? I asked,
really trying to listen to Brubeck’s piano
and thinking to myself that the writing
was already on the wall
and the ceiling
and across the back of the white leather sofa
and down the side of her rich red-blue blouse.

Don’t be so judgmental all the time,
she said. And remember
what the prophets tell us:
Understand yourself so you may understand others.

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