it's unlikely these moments mean as much to you as they do to me. waiting in your parents driveway for the engine to warm up i dance the receiver between radio stations (trying to skip the christian rock) while we flirt with stories of unrequited love and indifference. your dad is shoveling the sidewalk and i wonder what he thinks. thirty minutes from now we'll stomp our snowy feet in the doorway of my apartment trying to disregard a fondness for sleepy moments and entanglement, and i'll try to ignore how your bum looks in those jeans; we still have friends to meet in the bar down the street. i drank four beers and a guinness, you had a shot of whiskey and three far-to-sweet mixed drinks. the sugar will give you a hangover tomorrow, but we have no plans anyway. your fingertips are cold from the walk home and we forgot to lock my front door. our safety lies in our thoughtlessness for anything but each other or more candidly it may be the model 1911 handgun which rests in a drawer (my grandfather traded some flight boots for it during the war) it is unloaded but it's the idea of its closeness, like ours, that matters most. earlier on, when i had picked you up in my parents borrowed car, your knees tilted slightly towards mine in the front seat and the thought of us fucking had made me cheerfully nervous for the better part of the day, our evening ends between two a.m. and three as our balmy lips touch pleasantly in a half awake state.   



readers