treatswords

Smooth, the color of medium washed denim.

His outline dissolving with the passing minutes since he leapt out of bed.

His foot pressing on a beer can on the floor.

“Fuck.”

Vomit filling the center of the bed, my leg brushes over it, wet, sticky.

Red rum.

Too much to drink.

I strip the sheets and toss them in the running shower.

He’s moved to the couch. His lips stained with sangria.

Pink glasses fill the sink, different shades of blush.

He’s pissed about the bed.

The sheets now lying in a wet clump at the bottom of the bathtub, smelling of rum and sugar.

“Jesus, where am I supposed to sleep?”

He said after I started gagging.

I.

It was always I.

I join him in the living room.

Two bodies on a loveseat, knees pressed to our chest, toes curled in.

“Fold me up like a lawn chair until morning.”

I feel like saying.

His large feet push farther away.

Always distance between us.

I thought the Sangria would help.

With each glass I waited, hoping for him to unzip and reveal red velvet.

Something soft and tangible.

When I woke, he was missing.

Square pillow smelling of him.

Spicy, with a hint of coconut skin.

I reach for my phone.

A message from him.

“I left to try get some rest.”

I picture him driving away, hangover settling in for the afternoon.

Back to his apartment, back to his small white cat with a pink nose.

A clean bed awaiting him, fresh set of sheets stretched over the bed corners.

He settles in, lying on his stomach, limbs spread apart on both sides.

Belly button pressing firmly against the fabric.

Another woman joining him once the hangover fades.

Her dark hair wrapped around the pillowcase, a dolphin tattoo on her thigh swimming in the wrinkled sheets.

I find a stray hair the following day, spilling out from the pillowcase.

I inch closer to him.

I drape the hair over his back, brunette thread running down his spine.

I kiss his shoulder blade and rest my head against his cool back.