Telenovelas

I pour two cups and hand her the cream.
I tell her the whole story except for a few
of the most embarrassing parts,
then apologize for using her as damage-control.

“Stop. You know I enjoy it.” she quips, as she
swirls her spoon around the edge of the cup.

“At least someone does.”
I notice the light coming through the window
like knife blades, and the particles
floating around in no particular direction.

“Who ran damage control after me?” she teases.
There’s a hint of pity in the air, but
it’s balanced with a soft sense of subtle guilt.

“One of the others. It’s like my surplus of
friends is in direct correlation with my
deficit of lovers. Then again, I’ve never really
understood economics.”
I may as well have put the back of
my hand to my forehead and sighed.

Her eyes roll like digits in an old clock-radio.
“That doesn’t take self-destruction into the equation.
It’s a flawed principle. I’m not even sure it’s an accurate
analogy, women don’t like to be considered as figures.
Besides, she sounds like a fucking bitch.
What do you call those crazy soap operas on the Spanish channel?”

“She’s not a bitch, she’s just… telenovelas?”

Shaking her head, “Man, it’s worse than I thought, you’re demented.
A telenovela. Right. You’re like a telenovela with subtitles.
Can you make popcorn the next time you invite me over?”