ever marching as to war

"We're at a party," I say, like that matters. The excuse sounds weak even to me, so I take the opportunity to dry off my hands. It feels better to move, to do something other than just stand here and keep lying through omission.

I look down, angry at myself and knowing it shows. But I can't not look at him, so I force myself to meet his eyes, holding his gaze as long as I can stand it.

"I screwed up."