It goes like this.

The floor is covered in sheets. Not your sheets. But the kind that crunch when someone moves—even when nothing moves.

So you’re laying there, adjusting to someone’s body, not sure if his eyes are blue or green—they’re pale though—smug. You don’t look at him.

You give him your back. You can feel how warm your body is, because his hands are very cold.

You can feel the sheet lift—which is actually the buttons of an oxford shirt pulling off—and the sheet falls away.

It’s still warm even if his mouth makes the blades of your shoulders skip. You move away from him—but you don’t move.

It’s like staring into the eyes of someone sleeping—hating everything. You push what’s on top of your body into the bed. He stops sleeping and squeezes your breast. That’s when—when the farthest thought in your head hits you—when it feels like your own hand. So all you can do is throw it back—sling it—pull it across his face—say it—say your mouth is a chainsaw—knotted with chains—and you yank the horns out—hammer it—pinching the tip of it—the whole chest of it—heaving it into the air—until the intimacy of your anger feels foreign—until your hand swims in it —until it’s as restless as it always was.

And you—you admitted the insult—ripped the picture instead of turning it over.

You say you will never understand, that it will never matter. Moments like those are too close to the pale shape of a door. Well, tell yourself whatever you want. Tell yourself to breathe in and flop against the wall. Say yes and no whenever necessary. Plummet like a broken air-conditioner into the street. You’re not in the same place your were a year ago, not even close to the time you put your head between your legs to block the sound of screaming. Your hair has not lifted. You are not cold. In fact, you are so far away from the thought of it, that your hand grabs on to the closest, most vulgar picture you can think of.

You think—this is not-me. This is not-me and never will be. And you’re a thief. You’re a torn script. You’re two cross sections, done simultaneously.

I have let nothing go. I’m dreaming of nothing, now. I’m dreaming of two conversations, spaced across ten years, colliding. I’m seeing you in a picture. And I'm hold the picture at an arm's length. We’re shunting whiskey into paper cups. And even though I don’t drink whiskey, I drink with you. And we laugh like we never did—but it’s different. It’s not like what happened. Or what won’t happen. It’s washed away. It’s like staring into this mirror saying nothing—oh but, yes. You still say yes.