I know how that room smelled; it’s burned in my memory. As is your silence, the keyboard serving as a makeshift table and the half-finished cups of coffee — ironic evidence of our inactivity.
We went out to listen to jazz — why, I’ll never really understand. I tried to act suave drinking a gin and tonic and saying I knew where the bathroom was when I’d obviously never been to that club before.
Sitting there with my legs uncomfortably crossed I whisperyelled to you that I bet the drummer’s face during an orgasm looked exactly like the face he was making while playing and you didn’t think it was as funny as I did. He was old and weird-looking and I don’t know why I thought of it.
Later, sitting on your dirty porch, as I held my shivering legs, smelling millions of cigarette butts and feeling the disintegrating couch beneath me, we heard one guitar and one voice. Neither played a song but I sang along anyhow.