We watch white blonde women on television act out
rich people problems, and we drink red wine together.
It’s storming outside. The thunder tells us lightning
is striking just three miles away. Some arc in the show
triggers something and she starts to cry near the climax
of the B-plot.
I am beside myself with confusion. It’s been a tough day,
and asking a simple question escapes me, so we just
start to kiss. She leans into the back of the couch,
then into the arm rest. I am pushing her into the cushions
somehow. We straighten ourselves and I take my hand to
her cheek; brushing away strands of her hair, I attempt to
hold her face, but she pushes me away.
‘Your fingers smell like cigarettes,’
and she is still crying.