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Between the Beds

I've got a bottle of Pimm's No. 1 and a two-liter of 7-Up and a cucumber. It's not going to be enough. I know this, so I also have a cooler of Bud Light in cans and a pint of Maker's Mark for myself. I'll drink shots if I have to.

We meet in a hotel room this time because you're living with someone now and I...well, there's always something, isn't there? Plus, a hotel is neutral ground and after the last few conversations, neutral ground seems like a good idea.

This part is embarrassing. I'm not sure how I feel about you being happy. And you are happy; that much is obvious. Don't take that wrong. I want you happy, really. It's just that I wish you were more interesting in your happiness. More self-centered, maybe? Everything out of your mouth is a 'we;' it's as if you lost your 'I.' And that makes me sad.

Anyway, I'm not into it. Every insipidly cheerful thing you say sounds like the volume turned way up on that last whisper in 'Lost in Translation.' Your body language is going nowhere and my mind is totally wandering to the hotel bar, the interstate, home, anywhere. I imagine a party of drunk college kids somewhere on our floor later tonight. I imagine passing out on the floor, in my clothes, between the beds in that dark room surrounded by the wasted flattery of strangers. I do not picture sleeping with you.

I'm going to have to drink a lot faster. After two hours, you were already out of cigarettes. By evening, we were watching TV, sober except for the dull throb of dehydration behind my left eye.

I was already in bed when you came out of the bathroom in your pyjamas and climbed in next to me. For what seemed like hours, I lay there in the dark beside you, not sleeping, not moving. There were sounds in the hallway. I listened to people stumble, laughing by our door. My eyes will not close. Your breathing will not turn to a light snore.

Finally, I creep out of bed. I grab my cigarettes, two beers, an empty plastic cup and go into the bathroom so I can think about what you were like to me once. I lay naked in the in the dry tub for a long time, before, with my foot, turning on the water so as not to wake you up with the sound of what you don't need to hear.

But, y'know? Maybe I did drink those last two beers a little too fast.

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post #358
bio: blaine

first post
that week

Category List
April - National Poetry Month 2008

Favorite Things
· Autumn's first apples
· What It Is! Funky Soul and Rare Grooves boxset
· Collected Works of Jack London
· Spring Migrants