13/20 Two Lumps

The man across the small table avoids eye contact

as I avoid his in return.

He is my friend.

We share history,

know each other's fears,

struggles,

secrets.

This will be one of them,

shifting awkwardly in pink chairs too small for us

while blond-haired girls smile and make a fuss.

Their daddies are having a tea party.

We dutifully accept refills with pinkies raised.

My child asks,

"One lump or two?"

then bonks me on the head with a plastic tea tray when I answer.

Twice.

The other daddy laughs,

as do our children,

though neither has ever seen

Saturday morning cartoons.

This is learned behavior.

This is ritual.

This is tradition.

There have been many tea parties.

This will not be the last.

Our cups are refilled,

again.

Imaginary cream, sugar, and British accents.

We will not admit our smiles are genuine.

This secret

will go with us to our graves.