A Friday Night With Jude

It’s two in the morning,

he looks at me over a bottle of half-drunk wine – not mine –

eyes lidded as if that made his disgust hidden.

I can’t stop the way my mouth runs,

a rapid current spouting torrents better left unsaid.

But I thought we’d come to understanding

after months of off-handed remarks

sibling-like comments.

(I hate when people call us that).

Instead, his latest jab slaps,

backhand to my flushed cheeks.

I want to bite back,

show him I’m a real man,

but our friends – associates – sit around,

so I just dissociate,

fade away,

and wait until three.