Who cares

I wanted to ask her if she loved him, or if she even liked him,
but her eyes just dared me to ask such a meaningless, stupid, impudent question.
It didn’t matter if she cared at all, it was the thing to do.
She told the story, wove it thick with sexy threads,
making every girl there wish it was her story to tell.
Explained in detail every move, every touch, every action, to the wide-eyed stares,
and open mouthed faces of every enchanted would-be enchantress.
All the while wearing this sultry, satisfied smile on her face that never reached her eyes.
I wanted to ask so many things, but I dared not. I sat quiet, while all those faces watched expectantly.
Avid listeners, those who have never experienced things they look down on. They’ll prod and push at you,
until you’ve given every detail, satisfied their curiosity, and then denounce you for the knowledge they craved and achieved through your experience.
And then, when the tale was done, the last words echoing in every mind, every corner, every imagination, one over curious girl asked, “Do you think he’ll call?” And with eyes daring her to defy the lie about to be told, eyes daring her to dig deeper, eyes damning her for posing such a dirty, stupid, hopeful question,
I said, “Who cares.”