Tonight a man I brought home from the bar
came on my leg. He apologized. I said it was OK, while laughing on the inside.
It started out by him asking to kiss me.
I asked why (because I mistakenly think things like this make me appear coy)
and he attributed his inclinations to my smile and intelligence. I agreed. The
night turned into mid-morning. He’s makes sandwiches for a living, and I think
about him more than the wonderful man who actually has drive and focus. Who
doesn’t want to open an art gallery in NYC.
Yet, I await the stranger’s call—the
comes-on-your-leg boy. And I blame myself if it doesn’t happen. I am fatigued
from this game, but I find myself putting on my shin-guards to play once more.