three jeers for the man in white

he took me inside a dull white dark room and served tuna sardines on a paper plate. i asked, where's the fork and he said we eat with our hands. i was standing before the kitchen sink and he was behind in the cabinets fetching drinks for all the people in the backyard. he had tipsy legs that wobbled as he shoved the ice trays back to the fridge. by now he must have forgotten my name. i've certainly forgotten his. but as he leaned on my shoulders to push his lips closer i remembered it might have been mike or mark, or michael or mitch. something that begins with an m. he had hairy hands with thick stubby fingers like medina, my grade 6 seatmate, whose hairline sodded beyond his forehead and was clearly oblivious to what he was talking about. i smelled the beer stank and went on to chew food that tasted like a packet of year old-cigarettes. the stains on his shirt tails are the color of pee and i pity whoever has to wash it. all in vain i thought the party would end passively romantic, however vague i mouthed how much the moon looked like ai-ai's chin to pretend i was silly drunk and non-sense. but i kind of liked being that way... until all the chairs slumped closer and closer to each other. until there were no more gaps at their hips and i was left dry to sulk in a corner. i truly wanted a rescuer although never expected it'd be in a form of a sweaty puff-lipped creature in a white undershirt, who had beers each hand and loved to nudge people under his elbow and prickly armpits. he raised his glass and i shouted i was hungry. i rambled for thirty more minutes until he was convinced i needed to eat and there we were in a mold-smelling dirty kitchen making out. and if i ever learned anything that night, it was to never eat fish before making out - unless you want to throw up twice the next morning.