Her before: Party. Facebook. Birthday. Scorpio. Another birthday. Karaoke, show me the photo; “You’ve gotta meet my friend…” Her after: Funeral. Scotch. Haircut. Happy Hour. Art party. Take me places. Deposit me.; “You’ve gotta meet my husband…” Another art party, wine, this blond poet, his friends, more wine; the best jokes: “That doesn’t hurt.” More wine; Talk about fashion. Facebook; Gossip. Dinner. It’s good. Talk about real shit. Talk about everything; disaster. Talk about nothing; disappear; Return. Lunch. Bury the lead. New Years. Day drinking. Get bangs. Black Swan; YSL red lipstick; Dinner; Pink Bubbles; music; dancing; new words; blog; IM; Life Coach; Facebook; Gossip. Happy Hour. Sartorture. Bffing. “Don’t talk. Listen…”
Him before: a bulge in a great suit in the photo; a blond, a poet, an accident; her best friend. Him after: The roof, some art, his terrible friends, that vest, spilled wine. Scrapes, stitches. Innuendo. No kisses. Sagittarius. Awkward sex, kisses, blond beard, not-blue eyes, poetry; ‘Sing me Spanish Techno’; art again, more wine; his captivating friends. Text messages. Vocabulary, attention, manners, sublime sex, that playlist: ass-over-teakettle. Teach me three things. Check-in on me. Open the car door; tell me how smart I am; “No, don’t tell your mother about me.”; Buy me a corkscrew. Give me water, make me coffee with honey; keep me warm. Read me; put me down; don’t finish. Grow John Berryman’s beard. Unravel. Pull my hair. Let me go. Disappear.
Me before: Mother of two. Me after: Mother of one.