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 other hand
like a prize a white hanky, balled up inside smooth-palm temperateness I
wish to crawl in, sprawl out, relax, and meld.
His shoulders twitch. It’s as if somewhere else is pulling him to leave,
to get a move on, to rid himself of my company, my bookish weirdness,
my bloc, my lock, my cock.
He sports a bulge real men with real bulges sport.
He knows who, and what, he’s packing.
Sixth.
Seventh.
Eighth.
Everything I crave.
And long to feast. Fast.
And ruin. Faster.
Yeah that—
That’s what I’ll do.
I’ll shower him with enchantments, machinations, symmetries.
He’ll like that. I’ll tell him as much. He’ll believe me. And ask for more.
Ninth.
Tenth.
“Wanna lunch sometime?” I ask.
“Too busy with wife and kids.”
“You’re that kind of man, are you?”
“I’m simply me.”
“You don’t sound convinced.”
“Convinced of what?”
“Convinced of yourself.”
Eleventh.
Twelfth. Please be my drummer drumming.
Please show up. Please show up. Please show up.
8pm.
9pm.
10pm.
May.
June.
July.
I imagine being knit into the hanky he carries everywhere he travels, even in his sleep.
Most necks can sustain terminal movement.
Hearts, too.
Until the next bulge comes along.
How many more will there be?
Pushing and pulling.
Walking and sitting.
Drawing and retracing.
Ignoring and rejecting.
Me.
Samuel E. Cole lives in Woodbury, MN, where he finds work in special event/development management. He’s a poet, flash fiction geek, and political essayist enthusiast. His work has appeared in many literary journals, and his first poetry collection, Bereft and the Same-Sex Heart, was published in October 2016 by Pski’s Porch Publishing. His second book, Bloodwork, a collection of short stories, will be published in July 2017. He is also an award-winning card maker and scrapbooker.