He looks at his watch. It’s time, he says. I look around. Do I know you? I ask. He picks up his briefcase and walks toward me. And he swings.

I wanted to tell her that hate was a strong word and she recounted what had happened and I let out a laugh and that didn’t go over too well.

I kissed her. She said, You taste like desperation. That felt unfair, and I said so. And she said, Despair then. And that was more accurate.

My admiration for her grew and grew. I wish I could eat your ideas, I sighed. We went out to a zombie movie together. She kept her distance.

I texted her. I want to touch you, I said. She texted back. For real? she asked. She called me gross. I poked her instead. She poked me back.

She pauses after my question and in that pause all the possibilities lead to self immolation and finally she says, I’m not pregnant I’m fat.

She yawned, and my insecurities flooded my soul. She studied her watch. I didn’t sleep last night, she said. Of course not, I said, bitterly.