The television is muted. The only sounds are leaking faucets and the air conditioner clicking on, running and clicking off. I imagine you fucking her. Her stomach, flatter than mine, with no trace of razed off hair. Her boobs, larger than my A-cup. Did you feel guilty with your cock shoved up her cunt? Did it matter that you left me? “I am done with you,” you told me, then fucked a nineteen year old with the clap.
I did not throw coffee in your face when you told me about her. I looked at the cup and rubbed my fingers together, picturing the way I would flick my wrist, the way your face would turn, the waitress’s expression.
Then later I saw you with her. “I like your green dress,” you told me. I was so drunk I drove to your apartment instead of mine.
Weeks later, when we are drinking margaritas and eating refried beans, you pull my feet into your lap and rub my ankles, hardly sexual, but I get your meaning.
And now, when you’re sleeping next to me, I dream that we are sitting in a ditch on the interstate, smoking cigarettes that are turning to bones. The bones are shrinking, thinner than pieces of pine straw. I feel embarrassed that my cigarette is gone. I keep asking for more.