— 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