Last night
with all the expectation a first impression can muster
the what ifs bordering on am I crazy and why bother.
My eternal optimist wages a war of internal monologues with her cynic foe.
I painted my nails
a merely symbolic pale pink just enough color to hide the dings.
They will be revealed soon enough one nail at a time chipping, torn, picked away.
The joys of a new language the culture of me meets the world of who?
Possibility is the label I shall pin on this small thrill;
of conversation, connection and pasta.
I paint my nails in anticipation of really good pasta
... and maybe a glass of wine
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