My dryer has been spinning for three days. Three cycles. I pressed the wrong button. You can imagine how wet my clothes still are. Even the ones I’m wearing are drenched. I’m spilling. Almost called my band that. But no, we settled for silence. I receive it too often.
It’s been less than a week since returning from Miami. And now I’m due back. At this point, I don’t know where I am at all. The women I’m with. There are a few that bring some fuzzy semblance of home. But I’m driving drunk. And most of the time, I couldn’t tell you where I end up. I’m too casual. Nothing gets to me, I say. I don’t take things personally, I repeat, chugging a bottle a night to go to sleep.
‘You’re interesting,’ I’ve been told. Should I not take that personally either? I’ll wait till she loses interest, till I hurt her. Death and taxes aren’t the only things inevitable. Mistaking her arms for an opening to her heart, a hug for a fuck, their crossing for a cross, Jesus for Jesús, the overcooked Mexican on the corner offering mangoes when I’d prefer the flowers from Colombians.
Shit. I don’t like what I discover when I write. I’m throwing up over the toilet seat. I’m saying too much in too little time. I’m exposed. I might sound smarter when I’m alone. Over text, I’m an asshole. In person, I’m rude. I tell it to myself but I’d rather hear it from you.
In Miami, I had the joys of Miami. The heat brought the women. The heat took off their clothes. Three came in four days. I came once, too. There was a line at the studio. Yet I left with none. I hurt them all, though. That was the lasting impression. The imprint of my thumbs as they’re neck was bending. They blended together. But in all honesty, only I did.
I offered no proper conscience. My words, regurgitated as I tried to remember who, when, and how we dated. Ignorance is better with wine. Every time I see her, it’s as good as the first time. It’s like I’ve had a million first dates. I’m stuck there. The stupid drum throne is spinning, like my hair is tangled in hands trying to open my mind. But I’ll allow none to declutter it. To clean it. It’s a mess, a pile of clouds forever thunderous. Sweet, none of mine own, I don’t notice the stench.
‘You smell like pussy,’ she said. ‘You reek of it.’
‘Cancel it out,’ I replied. ‘Like PEMDAS.’
The only laugh was on accident. As I’m reminded that this was. I came on too strong. I didn’t cum at all. It might be a plead. I drank too much at the cypher. Tanis had warned me. My chops are reverting to my high school days. I rarely practice in Chicago. Eventually, I won’t have the chance to.
Every lay is rehearsal for the long sleep. I don’t know where we’re going but I’m going slowly. Lonely. Lowly. I likely made her cry. I wouldn’t know. I don’t deserve that kind of attachment. I’m not sadistic. Ignore all my other writing. I’m only horny and hazardous while I’m drinking. If the tears do come, I’d feel worse than I did before knowing her.
I had a hickey. I wasn’t aware. It wasn’t from her. I wasn’t aware. I am the stains I wear, the complaints I make, the sundried wrinkles from a smile I take for granted. I’ll poke and prod. I’ll pick apart. You can imagine her spinning in the dryer alongside me. Parts of me, always dirty, dirtying her, drowning her lovely cheeks in kisses too liberal for my own liking. I’m likely drunk. She’d assume correctly.
‘You want candy?’ she says like a man twice her size praying on women exactly her size.
She never takes off her work clothes. Even naked. It seems she’s still naked. Her mind behind the desk. Me living with no sleeves, no shirt to my chest. It’s still swimming in paradise. Even with the cocaine stained on a night I’d like to apologize for, I’ll wake up with no one to blame. I’d like to see her cry. But I’d like to have a towel ready.
We keep spinning. Someday, they’ll dry. Like an ordinary evening breaking up the time. The blemish on my record can be expunged regardless of how many lawyers I date. I think of her even when I’m away. Then, I drink. Again and again. And forget I have another load to wash, while she’s at the front desk.