Day one. I’ve fit the clouds into the cracks of my fists. Compressing water vapor into solid Friday night misfortunes, the ceiling fan blows it off like sand. Sweaty palms and the neighbors bang on the door. The walls are thin. Pizza goes in the oven and an hour later the fire alarm calls a time-out. Cereal and wine stain classy glasses – college crystal. She could make anything taste like heaven.
Day two. The headboard bangs the wall a little less frequently – the neighbors shake their heads and mutter “college kids” and threatened cop calls dissolve to late night revenge. Chinese takeout is pushed under the couch in a hasty buzz of necessity – the bed goes unmade. Bathtub chats and beer with no mugs, intertwined legs say less for the future. She’s cute when she’s quiet.
Day three. The tv promises more rain: a puddle-jump to the liquor store. Another attempt at a pizza and it isn’t glued to the oven – devoured. Pizza crusts thrown at the trashcan leave a trail begging a vacuum. I’ll take a whiskey – three fingers – and the lady’ll have a vodka with lemon. She says it’ll soften the blow.
Day four. Made a pot of coffee for two. Half still untouched.