| better words . . . . here there and everywhere |
I left that night with your simple promise that it was a mistake, that I should stay. An early morning appointment made my departure seem rational, the thing to do. I left your smile, your languid hand reaching out to me. At the time, I thought you were mocking my obvious reluctance, my desire to stay. I held out some money. What will you do for fifty bucks? I laughed and shivered. Anything, you said. I grabbed it back from you and left. I was nervous, then, thinking you would turn to the person next to you. But you said you didn't, and that you wouldn't. The idea of loyalty or exclusivity was absurd. You belonged less to me then, when we weren't simply friends, but friends with benefits. That was the night I wanted to die, to disappear from your life entirely. |
better places . . . . over under and through |