He reached over the table, took my hand, and said, “I was thinking that when you walked in.”
“Why didn’t you tell me it then?” I asked, somewhat incredulous.
He had coveted me like Bukowski might a bottle of bourbon at a college dorm, after a drunken sweaty night reading poems to feminists heckling him in the crowd, and the likes of Elizabeth Wurtzel, crushing on him from the crowd. Outwardly futile; lips pulled inward to avoid the smile that creeps up on a woman’s face when she learns you like going down town. And inside, she screams for your cock like a Prozac in the morning, when a hang over can’t even be called that. When it’s power is so treacherous otherwise proof of the devil is meaningless and unnecessary. If the glove don’t fit… And I took a bathroom break. Like Buk might, to down some Quaaludes or dip his dick under the faucet to piss in it. He had coveted me like any sex addict meets his prey. Laughing, head back, enjoying her life. Like any arrow, stick pulled back, tense against the foreground, taut and ready to pierce the flesh, the unknowing heart of the innocent deer, pounding, pounding they say. And pulsating against the prison bars of the ribcage; ready for a thick hard dick to just beg for admission two feet lower. Fuck you and your sex addiction. Fuck you and your meaningless bravado. You are nothing — and P.S. I never, ever came. I want to shout, from behind my innocuous salad, carrots almost mocking me.
“I was thinking it.” He says, and slurps his tea.
“You are nothing,” I want to shout – scream, at the top of my lungs across the table, squirt honey into my tea, and say nothing is what I did. Excusing myself to the bathroom, I take a long look in the mirror. Fucking gorgeous.
“I’m not feeling well,” I lie, when I return to the table.
“You’re feeling fine. Finish eating,” he says, and forces a forkful of garlicky kelp noodles into his mouth.