A Martyr In Her Bed Tonight

It was a swipe right, a short convo, a debate over the best Old Fashions and Black Russians, and a meeting downtown with every intention to be out of our minds then her polka dot panties and my Superman boxer briefs long before the bars closed. This town is small and made for bowlers and girls who wear side ponytails and Reebok Classics. Neither of us fit and found comfort in our sheepy behavior, however black it got.

Drunk, though I could argue we were tipsy, we stumbled down the cobblestone sidewalks, looking for pieces of Earth to hold tight to in case gravity wasn’t enough. “Just keep me where the light is,” I yelled out, and she went into a rant about John Mayer’s white supremacist dick. Drunk. Not one star in sight, just beams from our cell phone flashlights lighting our feet and attracting gnats and mosquitoes.

We replenished in each other everything drained from us over the past few days. I wasn’t sure how else to say “thank you,” except with a kiss while waiting on the Uber. She kissed me back pretending my hand on her back was the reason she came closer.

We left our shoes at the door, our phones on the coffee table, my shirt on the back of a dining room chair, and her shorts were kicked to the top of the fridge. All else made it to the bedroom floor.

We examined the markings strangers left on our bodies; the art and the writings. Between us were novels and galleries. I was The Met and her, the Gagosian. She’s a wanderer and a lover. I shiver next to her.

“Breathe. Remember to breathe.” Reminders when we were able to speak. “Breathe. Say something.” I read the poems on her back out loud.

Then there were no words. Just heavy breathing, a wind coming through the window, over our legs, and beneath the door, and laughing in the parking lot five stories below. They were probably lovers, I thought.

The silence wasn’t awkward, scary, or unsure. It was just there, like I was, feeling a peace, a serenity, a vibe. And she asked, “have you cried for Philando Castile or Alton Sterling yet?” Then I did.

A Martyr of sorts.

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