On my next day off, when the housemate has left for work, and I heat up the coffee that remains in the pot, I will go to into the bathroom, There, with an old pair of scissors and a weak grin, I will remove this heart of mine, and eat it whole in my kitchen.

It will be dismal work.

And then I will wait

maybe read a little Joy Williams or Bobby Ann Mason, until it passes.

(If you missed that, I meant, shit that good-for-not-a-real-lot-miserable-fucker out.)

Then, I will drive south to your house, knock real hard on your door,

and tell you it is time to dance, just because we never have.

You will say: No.

I will grab hold of your hip.

And then we do.

And I will be able to look straight into your eyes,

which are a shade of blue that I never can remember,

and you will not look away,

and there will be no repercussions.