First time his route-vein-hands opened and closed the door handle—six-foot something legs scissoring to a plastic seat, middle-age ass lost in puffy-wrinkle jeans, hot-nerd eyeglasses perched like chemistry-monocles on a Greek nose I suspect rises higher than it has ever looked down on colors he isn’t wearing—blue, green, yellow—I wanted to fuck him. Second. Third. Fourth. No hello. No sup. No idea about my calibrations, sensations, and misattributions. Fifth. Most necks can sustain terminal movement. For a while. I’m wearing mine out. I can’t stop. Shifting. Rigidity seeking permanency. Duh. Scintillation watching man-splaying, a bitty belly snug against gray cotton polo, and a pair of brown tennis shoes with white ankle socks. It’s as if every chair, every room, every world in which he’s been a participant has not only welcomed him, but asked him to stay. Please. Stay. He twirls a pen between sex-knuckle fingers; holds in the oth