Not him; he’s fat.

And he puffs at the tiniest move.

He buys shirts for a body not his; I see he’s in Alexander McQueen.

So last year.

 

Not him; he’s trashed.

And his eyes are the blackest of black.

His thin body curves to the bar, trying to assume an air of cool normality.

So achieving the opposite.

 

Not him; he’s loud.

And his muscles have muscles have muscles.

His body is too big for his head; he spends his tedious life at a tedious gym.

So what.

 

Not him; he’s short.

And he walks in the angriest way.

He goes to one girl, then another, then another: a spread better, I see.

So predictable.

 

Not me; I’m too good.

And I sit with ostensible cool,

With a glass in my hand and eyes scanning the dance floor.

I’m fishing.

No, not you.