How can I love you if I don’t love myself? If I can’t embrace who I am? And now you want me to commit to you? I mean, just look at my pants.
Twisters
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This is where I parked my car. Its theft leaves me bereft. The cop rolls her eyes. Forgive me I’m an English major, I say. Carless. Forlorn.
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The elevator took forever to arrive. Wait until we get inside, she said. My heart raced. But not the elevator, alas. So she took the stairs.
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I approached the thing with trepidation, but also with pride, as someone who had won, finally, or at least overcome. But it was just a rock.
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That time he got lost deep in the woods and had to crap and they found him squatting in the poison ivy and the awesome indignity of his gas.
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She said, The photographer called me too ethnic and not ethnic enough. Later, we went back to my place, and tried to figure out who she was.
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I showed her the ring. She studied it. She said, It’s stupid. I closed the box. It’s not for you, I told her. Then it’s stupider, she cried.
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When I think of you I think of my favorite word. I utter this in the afterglow, struggling for breath. But it wasn’t epic, she says, gently.
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I told her I would sing for her, that this was the measure of my love. But I’ve heard your singing, she said, not understanding me yet again.
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Shame was universal once. Before it became an affectation and lost currency. I say to the unfortunate guy suffering in the stall next to me.
