I torture myself with her imagined body count, and ach to
have been in the front of the line rather than the guy she comes back to after
other men have come to her, all the details locked up in my head like the reels
of a repeated porno flick, enduring it like a husband whose wife goes out one
day a week with her girlfriends, only she isn’t just with the girls when she
goes;
I torture myself, filling in the gritty details of what I
would with somebody else’s wife if I had traded places, the back seat of the
car, the grim by the hour motels, thee bod count pounded out by the marks the
bed posts make on the wall
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