11 Dec

She was eating something when she came back. Something in Styrofoam. She was wearing the same black leather jacket she came home in the last time she went away. I had the TV on. The door opened. We looked at each other. I wanted to go and hug her. I wanted to smell that smell of leather mixed with her juices. That stuff that comes out of her armpits, her pores. But I was afraid. I wasn’t sure what she was doing back. She always came back. I never understood why. I felt thin, like the bristles on a broom after it’s been used too many times.    She picked one of the fried things out of the Styrofoam, put it in her mouth. 

   “What is that?” I asked. It felt good to say something. I didn’t care if she answered or not.

   “Want one?” she asked. She held one out. I looked at her arm. 

   I stood up. Walked. I took the thing she was holding in her hand. I didn’t want it. It looked like something deep-fried. I didn’t feel like eating anything. But I wanted to get out of the chair. 

   I held it up. I looked at it. “Thanks,” I said. 

   “Sure.” She had a little black purse hanging off her shoulder. It was Saturday. 

   She went in the kitchen. I watched her legs. Like two pumps. I walked. Sat in my chair. I could hear her in the kitchen. “Got any gum?” she called. 

   She came back into the living room. Looked at me. I saw the way her eyes fell closed when she blinked. I wanted to open my mouth and rest my lips on her face. “You gonna eat that thing?” she asked. I still had the fried thing in my hand. I raised it to my mouth. Put it in. I held it on my tongue. I looked out the window. Clouds rushed over the world like they had someplace to go.

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