outside, the cold air
unwraps my skin.
i’m listening to a friend
tell us a story
that feels rehearsed,
meant to impress
but all i can think about
how sweet my drink is
and the length of that girl’s dress
across the street.
then i see him —
half-familiar, waving.
i don’t remember his name,
but he does me,
goes on about
jobs he’s changed
and the old team.
i’m the only one left.
he asks if life
is treating me well.
i nod.
he asks if i’m happy.
i look down,
searching for the answer
between cigarette ash
and concrete.
“if you need to think about it,”
he says,
“you’re not.”
his words stay with me
for the rest of the night,
then the week,
then the month.
this one is about a night in oxford that stayed with me.
