You, uh, said you’d be here by 9. It’s after 11. We were supposed to smoke up, listen to some records.

But you’re drunk, you say, puking into my toilet.

Tomorrow, you’re moving away. It’s our last night. Looking out the corner of your eye at my mattress on the floor. You’re not even pretty. I made the bed for you. You’re lying in it, wearing that ugly t-shirt. Try to kiss you, but you roll over. AC conked out a week ago and the fan’s just blowing hot air around. The City is fucking loud and one asshole won’t stop laying on the horn. Thought I’d be inside you tonight. You said. Waited all summer. I’m just gonna…

Don’t, you say. At least put on a condom.

Next morning, you won’t eat the lox and bagels I bought. Fucking shit is expensive. That night you call me. You hurt me, you say.

I’m sorry.

It’s ok. Just don’t do that to the college student you tutor.

Fuck you, bitch. You don’t know a thing about her. She’s beautiful. Fuck off to Wisconsin.