You wouldn’t even let me treat you to tacos
because you equated me buying you dinner
with dating and so we watched YouTube videos
before sex then chatted like two shy beginners
post-boink, our eyes cast downwards or staring out
into the dark, unseeing. You spoke of the Mexican
novel for some reason. I wanted to talk about
feelings, briefly albeit. Then we fucked again.
All that ended with the following text last night:
“My boyfriend arrives tomorrow from Caracas.
Are you free now?” It took me six hours to reply:
“Love deeply, not widely, in both Americas.”
I wanted to blame you for making me feel cheap
but I knew you weren’t single. So who’s the creep?