Take your taste back

Last night.

In the bathroom, under the shower, she is bent over. Her hair trails downwards, skimming her thighs, almost touching the tile floor. It curls and curlicues into itself, delicate and fine, the way it is in that poem she now struggles to remember.

The water running down her spine is almost like a warm palm. Almost.

Last night.

She wakes up, gets out of bed, and grabs the envelope from the shelf.

It is so easy to let some things go. So easy to throw them away.

She goes back to sleep, where she dreams about a ring and a curtain.

Last night.

"Love," s/he said, "is a series of chemical reactions that fool the brain into thinking you feel more than the need to procreate."

Last night.

She only needs to hear the words.


*


Tonight.

Someone will read a poem and she will pretend it is not about someone she knows.

Tonight.

Did you throw it away?

Tonight.

His laugh is a reply she doesn't want to dwell on.

Tonight.

She is about to say it, but thinks too much. It is a choice between his silence, or words he doesn't mean.