You were my host in a tuxedo.
I was your guest of honor in chiffon.
My coiffure highlighted for this occasion.
You did not know I almost did not come.
I joined the throng.
I drank Sauvignon Blanc.
I laughed.

Not a belly laugh induced
by a scatological joke,
nor the bonhomie of friends.
It was the masquerade of a diplomat
in a suit and medium heels
at an embassy cocktail party.
Always politic.

You sat at the other head of my table.
Your hair slicked back from the sheen of your brow.
Your nose honed to a point
that could puncture a delicate shell.
Your smile shellacked.

Rather than glare I commended you:
“The roasted red peppers are succulent.”
“The mussels in light garlic sauce superb.”

When it was time for hugs and good-byes,
I kissed you on the cheek, almost on the mouth.
Judas, short of turning you in.