I watched him, watching me, as the L train pulled away.
I had had too much to drink. I had eaten half a salad, had wobbled in unfamiliar heels down Sixth Avenue, and had allowed him to press me up against the storefront to kiss me while I, pink as a radish, panicked.
Then the L took off, rushing me far away, back toward to East Village, back to the sopping wet leaves ground into the midnight pavement. I panicked. I called someone else, someone from my past, someone from April, May and June. I all but begged him to leave Brooklyn and crawl into bed with me.
He showed up an hour later and put his arms around me. It was not what I needed, but it was what I wanted, wasn’t it? My heart was a Cy Twombly, blown up and scribbled on with red wine magic marker.
His hands around me, his stubble scratched into my upper lip, I sat up in the dark while he slept. He had, ipso facto, returned. I had just regressed.