You listened to too much Eric Clapton. When you walked in the door, I'd hear the opening chords of “Layla” and while you were talking to me, telling me things, I could hear the whole song in my head. All five hundred minutes of it, you asshole. (But I did like that time we got drunk and you walked me back to my apartment. The slip of moon, uphill sidewalks, black-green grass, more sidewalks; a million moth army, more crickets, streetlights. All the girls at my place were playing strip poker and I was glad I wore my pretty bra because I am not very good.)
Allow me this. Eventually you are going to have to deal with the fact that you've been born. But don't worry. Tonight I'm not drunk. I don't drink anymore but I do miss the feeling of closing my eyes and falling back – of loosening my tie. If I wore a tie.
Come on. I am a lioness on a big, hot rock. I told you that.