Nicholas Cook

— unused frag­ment
It crossed my mind, this one’s view­point, but he has dry hands, bony wrists.
He drinks toma­to juice from a paper cup. I sip on my cof­fee, read this mag­a­zine from back to front.

— feb 22, 2011
I leave before the wife gets home. She’s walk­ing up while I’m pre­tend­ing to look at some­thing on my feet.
“Oh, it’s just a bite,” I say.
“A lit­tle fuck­ing bite!”

— a valen­tines sto­ry
“Let’s do this mod­el thing,” he says. He’s the boy in the skin­ny jeans every­one stares at. His shirt’s on the ground. He grabs my arm, pulls me to the floor. We’re in this bar­ren thing togeth­er. I won­der where the bed is.
“You’re right,” I say.
He’s the type with a rotary phone, no com­put­er.
“Leave them on,” he says about the lights.
There are wood­en floors, white walls, a sheet in the cor­ner.
He takes my hand.
His skin smells stag­nant like sum­mer.
He says, “Go for it.”
I take this to mean every­thing and every­where is okay for me to put myself.
— feb 14, 2011