Current affairs

I incline my head just so, push my hair behind my ear.  He is talking to me and I do not know why.  Around us the party smells of red wine breath and perfume and hot meat.  People mill between the publicity material and projections.

"You see," he says, "it's so obviously a stitch up.  Those bastards are racist to the core; but: what's the best way to cover it up?"

I am looking at his face and I wonder: 'does his beard hurt him?'  I place my hand on my hip; my glass empty.  He leans closer, words pressing at my ear.

"It's the oldest trick in the book. Play the anti-semitism card; bring in the right wing press.  Well, not this time.  They'll do anything to stay in power."

Inside, I feel like a rag being twisted.  "It's more complicated than that," I say.

He steps back, looks at me as if I have refused to accept a gift: a collage made at school or a tiny crafted thing of whalebone carved in dark nights in the bunk of a ship.

He waits for me to continue.

He is talking to me and I do not know why.