babyhead

There is the fur rug that rests against the back of our heads. The light is almost off, and I am thinking about Schieles' long lumpy lines. It is not quiet here, and I am never really good company. I can't relax, always waiting for the next.

Morphine is on the sound system, because I asked.

You whisper in my ear: I am a good listener. You can talk to me.

I say: I hate the sax.

You: Do you have a soul?

And I laugh, and I think: How do you check?

You turn over, and smell yourself.

You apologize. You say you stink.

Me: Let me see.

You lean over and put your arm near my face.

Me: Nothing.

You unzip your black nylon jacket and push an armpit to my nose.

Me: No, not so bad. Girls always wanting to show how strong they are.

You: I am mighty.

Me: Meathead.

And you smell yourself again.

Someone in the next room is getting hit with a leather strap, and there is a carnal resonance.

You cover your face, and turn the music up.

I say: Maybe.

You say: Yeah, and yawn.

I pull into my driveway, and my housemate is standing on the corner. She is waiting for her ride to work. So, it is very late, close to 5 in the morning. She stands there as I drive past, looking like a child with her wide grin, in her giant red jacket, and floppy earflaps. A child with a giant steaming mug of coffee, in the dark, on the street corner, smiling to me.

Smiling at me, and waving.

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