The Leiry Loop

You felt the tip of the pen—
not yours—
scratch the grainy surface
of the table.

Thin. Translucent.

You took up your spoon
and it made
shy contact with
your lips, but
you were careless, and had let
the cream
drip—turning your words
into unrecognizable
blotches.

Smudged. Soaked.

You gave up and quickly
grabbed the
plastic cup for a drink.

You thought you were
cautious enough,
until you happened to glance
upon a girl
with strange locks and
even stranger
face markings—a bit of
the ice
slid into your mouth, and
down
to your throat.

Choked. Coughed.