tried to paint these walls. They’re mustard splotched with careless strokes of
black and the bathroom is ear-sore blue. I asked if I could paint them. The
owners said only neutral colors.
never even flipped through sample strips.
Robby and I just got our own place. Thought it would make us happy—closer.
summer and already dark.
at the table with a half-drunk bottle of Pinot Noir.
call a bad drug dealer. I mean, literally, he was a shitty drug dealer. Almost
never had any drugs. Can you imagine?
stops by anyway and that’s taken care of.
those dreams that used to be are shadows on the new walls.
dad never danced with me at my wedding. (This, of course, was before the
divorce and before Robby.) I can’t remember if my grandfather did, but it feels
like he did. So somewhere in my mind it happened—for real.
well past midnight. We’re at our new place.
doing coke (as if that sounds edgy anymore) and listening to “Little Red
know we won’t have sex tonight.
One Belongs Here More Than You