babyhead

It is close to nine and you show up at my door, the weather is not, outside is just bitter. You are here, and I did not ask for this. I was happy eating my sandwich, and watching Diana Troy run around in tight leather pants.

Your nose is cold. Your hair is wet. You are half in the bag. When I point this out, you make believe that you're not.

I don't mind, but the housemate goes to bed.

She points out that Ferris B's Day Off in showing on the Television, and we sit on the couch. You crawl up close to me, and you don't smell like anything. I stroke you head, and you touch the inside of your bottom lip. The body warmth is nice, but I am bored. I want to hear about the children's story you are writing.

I say: Tell me about the Charkasteins.

But your words are fuzzy. I am frustrated.

You are looking for some comfort tonight, and I get up and go the kitchen for a drink.

There is wind against the glass and doors, looking for cracks. I lick my finger and taste the salt there, and listen. The wind sounds like it is tearing against the Atlantic, and there is nothing homey about those sounds.

You follow me, all long legs, hair in your eyes, and drink from my glass. You look at your fingers, sit on the kitchen floor, and tell me: There is something angelic about you.

You are the third drunk woman to say those words. I don't mention this.

I don't bring up how that description grates on me.

You kiss me, and eyes get closed, and there is more.

Fingers round the back of your neck, behind the ear, and I am thinking about someone I wanted to kiss in a Coleraine Apple orchard. I have to stop.

You say: I'm a mess. You should kick my ass out.

I nod.

I say: Soon.

I say: Your girlfriend will be back in town, very soon.

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