Lagunitas

I go out for tampons, tea, and a cheap razor. Find them all
at the new bodega, the one with your name spelled the
Spanish way—Vicente. Then beers at your new place. I
paint my mouth with a thick red brush. A kindergartener
trying at lips.

Railroad-style apartment, one half flooded with light.
You live in the dark half. Still, three rooms of your own
in Brooklyn. It’s not nothing. “The room needs mood
lighting,” I say in each room. I drink four IPAs even
though I hate them. Little touches accumulate. A hand
on the hip, a finger on the neck. We hold vowels in our
chests ‘til they burst from slack jaws. Is it overkill for a
lover to arrive hungry? The onions go pap-pap in the skil-
let. You clear the table of ashtrays and empties; tell ex-
girlfriend stories, proof you’ve been desired throughout
history. Low-hanging fruit.

I pretend to listen. Instead count your gray chest hairs,
the years that stretch between us. I fish my phone out of
a pocket, the way anyone does when they want to leave
without leaving. Another round. You call me your best
friend, grab my face and kiss it. But a sentimental drunk
is still a drunk. You can’t fall asleep without music, so
you put something on. An important jazz ensemble I’ve
never heard of, I’m sure. Then a sudden, churning need
for “air” after too many Lagunitas. My steps thud down
your stairs and out the door. I take the city’s fickle dark
into my mouth as I walk, looking up into blue apartment
windows, still hungry.