“You don’t do it anymore,” she said,
Not at all petulant: curious,
Bourbon, tequila, sambuca, and gin,
One drink each is in my head,
She speaks, softly, pretty lips forming pretty words,
“It’s fate, darling,”
And my hair is standing up,
My hands are quivering, when I’m nervous
They shake, and she moves in closer,
Sheer sundress fluttering nebulous over legs,
She’s leaning in, and I’m acting calm,
I never have the right words at times like these,
So I speak without thinking, right before she leaves,
“Maybe we can shove some random objects into each other?”
We can’t today.

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