by Carrie Close
as we sit on barstools and lean towards
one another, our knees touching, you tell me
your wife is gone for the night—your kid
too—your lips find mine, but I pull away
you move in closer—you don’t care who sees, and how
can I resist, when I have been
in love with you for so long? the night is
already on her way out
when you pull me into your bedroom
and pull off my pants, your tongue
in my lips, when your roommate yells
through the bedroom door that your wife
has just pulled in—my heart stops
you leave the room, and I fumble
for my clothes in the dark, trembling
like a dog, left out in the rain
but you return before I’ve found them
and press your mouth to my neck
holding tight—she’s not here, don’t go
you say, so I stay—in your hot, heavy limbs
while you snore in my ear
I watch the light touch the blinds
and creep into the room
panic bubbles inside me, like yeast rising
as I think of your wife, I peel myself
from you, and drive
past dark houses and yellow-blinking traffic lights
to my empty apartment
where loneliness curls up around me
the way smoke fills a room
