I want to kiss you stranger. Taste your sweet day’s happenings, your cigarettes your beer your coffee your egg-salad sandwich. The pussy you ate this afternoon. Your wife’s contempt. I want to taste the things that bring you the most thrills and the most shame. I want to taste you and walk away. Wonder whether to lick my lips or spit with disgust and wanting.
There is the one with the smile. We turn to him often or pretend to be him when we have to. He is the go to guy because he is so well liked. He’s just draining. Or maybe they are. At least these days anyway. It didn’t used to be that way. We never had to pretend. But he is the one people want to think we are so that is who we give. We may not all agree on it but he is one of our best defenses. Our Trojan horse. A pretty little veneer. It gets to be a little much at times, yes. People get sweet on him real easy and they start asking a lot of questions and trying to be around him more often. But that’s all they are going to get from him. He’s all chit chat and one liners. They aren’t going to get more out of him because he just doesn’t have it to give. And they aren’t going to get it out of any of us either because by now we’ve learned to get the fuck out before they start getting to curious and we take Smiles with us. We get out before they’ve stopped talking about themselves. We take what we can from them, acceptance, intrigue, wonder, but we tip our hat and make an exit before it becomes infatuation, before we dream of hero worship.
I never loved Valerie. I told her I did all the time but only because she made me. It wasn’t like she’d say “tell me you love me” or “you love me right?” or even “baby, do you love me?” She’d just look at me sometimes. She’d lock deep into me and it didn’t matter if I was reading or watching a game or taking a shit for that matter, I could just feel her grasp so I’d look up at her and her neck would be all long and intense and stretched in such a way that her head tilted to one side or the other and her lips would be pursed tightly and one eyebrow would be raised and she’d just wait until I said something and I knew that if those words weren’t what she wanted to hear I’d be eating my way out of so much passive aggressive bullshit that I wouldn’t be able to pour myself a bowl of cereal around her without the stale air in our apartment going frigid much less get laid once in a while or get to smell her neck a little when I rubbed her back. So I learned to say I love you. And she learned to accept it.
The girl walked into the kitchen. There was blood on the linoleum floor in front of the open refrigerator door. It’s really hard to just write.
He only wandered inside you. Now he nibbles little slivers of you capriciously and it tickles. You feel special. You want to. He wants you to. He thinks you deserve it. To connect because by now he can tell you never have. And maybe you haven’t but who is he to think anything of you. You should use him. Cling to him. Squeeze. Suck. Quiver. He will secrete what he can, diverge accordingly and disappear for good.