Date

by Faith R. Johnson

​

“He tells me that my body shuts off

Like an angry faucet

Whenever we touch,

​

“You morph into a winter wave,

You freeze,

You bruise,”

​

I smile sadly

And peck him on the cheek,

He grins.

​

“I’m drunk.

Don’t listen to me.”

​

The bar is sticky

With molding cocktails,

Memories,

Empty kisses,

Cream-colored lust

Splattered onto the plastic skins

Of old red booths,

​

“Are you drunk, too?

I love this song!”

​

I open my mouth to ask

If he knows that I hate him,

​

My question is interrupted by

A ball of old

Unbrushed

Hair

Falling out of my mouth

And onto the ground,

​

Plop!

​

“I think I might love you”

​

His face fills with red regret

​

“Stop listening. I shouldn’t talk so much.”

​

I want to sink into the wooden wall

And become an etching

Of initials belonging to long-haired lovers,

​

A piece of old gum

Pressed underneath the table,

​

A dated print of an oil painting

Depicting a splintered woman

Who threw kisses to men,

A breed she was not designed to

Play catch with.

​

An angel with long blonde hair

Rises from one of the booths

Across the bar

And starts to dance,

I try not to look.

​

I take a shot and look at my shoes,

Hearing my mother’s voice in my ear.

​

She reminds me to cross my legs.

​

I take another shot

And yawn.

He leans in,

I itch a fake scratch

On my face

In the opposite direction

Of his mouth,

​

“Okay, let’s go. I’ve said enough tonight.”

​

I stand,

Stumble,

Look to the wall once more,

Longingly,

​

What a life it would be

To live in there.

​

He grabs my hand

And grins:

​

“You’re strange.

You’re different.

I like that about you.”