The party devolved into a rush of various fluids and I decided to leave but when a woman spilled her drink in front of me I decided to stay.
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I watch her sleep and wonder at my good fortune. She turns over and punches me in the face. That’s so cute, I think. Then she does it again.
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She threatens him with one of her knitting needles. He chuckles. This must mean I’m hip, too, he boasts. It’s the last thing he’ll ever say.
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I took a bite of the concoction and made a face and she said, Come on this is really trendy food, as if this mattered. Look at me, I replied.
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On her return home she realizes she’s forgotten her underwear and she smiles at the memory of her evening until confronted by a gust of wind.
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I tell her the fact that she shaves doesn’t mean anything to me. She says, Are you old or insensitive? I’m probably both but more resentful.
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We bathe in the light of nostalgia. She pours another round. We make sloppy love on the kitchen floor. In the morning, we both feel our age.
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Is this the end of your desire? What did I do to you? Was it my breath? My words? The way I smell? Or are you just unbelievably picky maybe?
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I’m staring over your shoulder at the words you are reading. I want to tell you this, to whisper in your ear. Even though your book is awful.
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Your house smells like cheese, I say to looks of recrimination. And my wife whispers, They’re lactose intolerant. But I can’t deny the smell.
