across the table, i passed evidence of self in a spiral notebook
cringing with every turned page.
it felt like an interview, and all i wanted
was to hold his hand or maybe take my clothes off
in a motel we paid for together
with singles and crumpled up green pieces of paper.
i let his friend write on my under arm skin
in black marker, permanent.
his eyes would wander towards me from directly across the table
i'd remember to slouch in my straight backed chair, beaming indifference.
there was something between us
a broad oak table
half empty glasses of whiskey i'd bought us.
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