A Different Bed Every Time

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Every night I stunned myself with gin. On one date, a man and I ended up at the airport and ate rhinestones. We moved fast and real. The plane progressed in handfuls of miles at a time. I refused to keep secrets, but he told them to me anyway. After a few days of gorging under the guise of vacation, I hit the road, figuring out how to be kind. This man could rile me, lift me, convince me with his hands. It felt too much like a disadvantage.

Another man looked at me like I might gnaw off his face before dragging him into a bush. He calmed down and we shared a holy week of drinking. I suffered a hairline fracture, and every few minutes it felt like someone shot a hockey puck up my leg. We played sailors behaving badly. We skated on predictions of what might happen between us. I whispered in his ear, “I know what’s beneath your pillow,” and he asked me to repeat myself. We watched pig dissection on his computer and had bad dreams. By the end apologies were hovering around us, but neither of us could tell whose turn it was to speak, so we lost each other.

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