She canceled the dinner arrangement I made the day before
yesterday, perpetually hot and cold running something I haven’t completely
sorted out, texting a short time later to ask if I was mad, calling when I
texted back, “no, only disappointed,” she saying she was weary and needed rest,
texting me later again while I was on the road about joining me in south Hudson,
her mother always claiming it was always a swamp, she needing to see it for
herself, stirring up the idea of dinner again, yet not saying where or precisely
when. Still later, when I pressed for a definitive answer, she canceled.
The text saying “hi” on my way home did not surprise me. At
home I said seeing me or not seeing me was in her discretion. She replied, “Don’t
leave it all on me.”
In the middle of the night, she texted to tell me she’d tried
to use the handle of a brush to get herself off; it had made her bleed.
In the morning, she texted telling me I ought to have come
over because she’d needed a man, not a hair brush.
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