Heavy Petting in Boca Raton, Florida
Nobody seems to age quietly anymore. There are so many drugs in me at any given time my doctor is like Spread them all out, so I stretch my body across E’s California King while she lights a joint—some government shit she bought off a boy she never thought to meet before today. Her bedroom is all bed and record player. Her records are stacked higher than most girls I’ve kissed or even thought about kissing. I can’t remember the last time I wore a hat. The last time I wore socks I was engaged and that was bad. Breathing is easier when E uses her mouth as a shotgun. I can’t fuck the first one out of me, the one from when I was barely alive—years before Z—years before a bunch of girls who looked like Z, but I can smoke her out. I do: She leaves the knots in my shoulders, the parts of my cock she always touched the most. I get E off three times even though we stay mostly clothed. After, she isn’t even on my fingers. I never think about the gravity of a whisper. I don’t remember what happens after the second blunt, but in the morning E promises I didn’t say anything dumb. I take a piece of gum and nod. I sneak out the back door even though she’s not married or even touching anyone else.
Gregory Sherl’s Monogamy Songs is forthcoming from Future Tense.
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