and I’m standing on the knife-edge of a drunken populace, and I’m pretty sure they’re supposed to be my friends, or the friends of friends, or I’m supposed to greet them with a smile and welcome them to the alcoholic bohemian reverie – it is my house, after all – but she shows up fashionably late, dressed in black, blending with the crowd, congealing with the monolithic mass of swaying/drinking/sweating bodies, mingling with all these other girls I used to fuck, and she acts like she’s only there for the cheap vodka and the thrill of violating the local fire code.

and there’s an entire bottle of blue hairspray in my follicles, and I’m drifting through the comic book characters and vampires and political archetypes and obscure pop culture references, and there’s a drink in my hand and debilitating nausea in my stomach, and it isn’t because of the triple-distilled whiskey, but because I’m crystal-sure tonight will be another puzzle piece stolen from the cardboard box of sanity, and playing the dangerous hand of authenticity would redact any possibility of grabbing branches in the postmodern turbulence and dragging myself into the watering hole of sincerity, where her revolver-shaped flawless smile doesn’t feel like a bullet to the chest delivered at twenty-four frames per second.

and she’s only been here a few hours, and we’ve barely interacted, and she’s leaving now arm-in-arm with the group she came in with, and I foolishly tied my high to the idea of cracking her code, because even after the sex and the long hikes and the conversations that felt like they meant something I still have no idea how to establish any kind of permanent connection, anything utterly perfect in its imperfection, like it could/should/probably-never-will-be.

and I’ve got her against the wall now, and I can’t remember ever kissing someone like this before, and I hate myself for the unwanted/unwarranted passion, after all the months fortifying defenses specifically for a moment like this, and it all did nothing in the end, and I hate her for kissing me back just as hard, and I hate her for the subtle moan that lights a kaleidoscope under my synapses, and I hate the way her hip curves to the pressure of being thrown against the alabaster and the way she loves it, and I hate her for leaving, clothes on, without a care in the world, after the moment subsides, and I hate her for the tight black dress, the round brown eyes, the way she fucking obliterates every part of me that thought I was past this shit.

Willie Watt


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