Our First Date: An Abridgement

We sat drinking coffee and
smoking cigarettes at a table
outside of Starbucks and
pretended it was Paris—ignoring
the overweight latina woman sitting
nearby whose night was, “Crackalackin!”
You told me that if you
put your thumb over the
butt of your cigarette while
you hold it, it’ll keep it from
burning down. Then, we sat
on a curb and made toasts
to carelessness, clanking our
two dollar bottles of André
with bubbles in our eyes.

It’s funny, the things one remembers.

We spent the rest of the day
in bed. The red fuzz from
your sweater made my sheets
softer for weeks. You told me
about some poor sap who used
to tell you that you were
kindred spirits. We laughed,
but even then, I felt sorry for him.


5 a.m.—sick from
too much coffee. I’ve been
pressing my thumb to the end
of endless cigarettes, and the ashtray
just becomes a mountain.