About That Night 

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