Just some things
She sat there in pixels, like Seurat,
yellow parka with fur trim, waist cinched,
thought of all the lies, swishing her cheap beer
and fending off offers of drinks from
friends and suitors alike. The black light
was not unkind, except for a small bleach stain
at the hem of her skirt. That time, she let him
bring his cat over, even though she was allergic,
and the damned thing peed all over her laundry
like it owned the place. Some people might believe
in subjectivism, but most will agree that it is
a universally, objectively, stone-cold truth
that all cats are assholes, just like that Jeff or John
or whatever his name was — truth to tell she’d
hardly forgotten anything about him, from the way
he usually forgot to button that last button
to that little cowlick he was so self-conscious about
or the subtle way he folded all her laundry wrong
when she’d let him in that deep — sure,
theirs had not been a celibate relationship,
but there were just some things.
