In the middle of reading a modernist poet and drinking a lukewarm cup of fragrant, flavorless cinnamon tea, I went out to the store to buy Speculoos, but it didn’t matter much if I ever got there because I was getting fat from sleeping all day. So I drove around until I found a bar.
“But I’m quarter aged!” I told them. “What’s one goddamn year going to do me?”
And they said I should go talk to the government. But that was wonderfully useless advice since the government doesn’t hand out beer. I kept driving, watching the scrub get grayer and grayer. The trees stretched their naked arms to claw at the clouds until the sky was cut and began to bleed. The drip drops irked me, so I went to his place where we fucked. He came on my back and gently brushed it from my hair.
Later, when I was alone and the tea stone cold, I decided the first book I’d write about us would be a volume of poetry entitled Poems I Wrote in Your Shower. I laughed since everything I wrote wound up crumpled under my bed, ink smeared by wet rain boots.