Outside it’s raining
or snowing,
I can’t tell which.
You’ re carving the bark
off a pineapple.
I am on my fifth whiskey,
soon to be sixth,
unable to remember
the last time
we spent this amount
of time together.
You cut the pineapple
into pieces, offering
me a bite from the tip
of the blade. I smile,
not caring that the
pineapple juice has dripped
from my chin onto my shirt.
You laugh. I laugh.
I pour my sixth.
You take a bite.
And the world
spins on without us.