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from "Swimming in the Ocean" I meet you at an underground bar. You’re not a complete stranger. Someone I’ve noticed. I take you back to my place. We have sex. It’s okay. Not great. The fumbling awkwardness of unfamiliar bodies trying to be intimate. I roll over, feel a strange push-pull. Want you. Want you gone. Something. Don’t see you again. I don’t remember your name or even what you looked like. I meet you at an underground bar. You look interesting. We make eye contact. You saunter to the empty chair opposite me, a glass of draft in your hand. There isn’t any real conversation. I let you take me back to your place. We fuck. Wild and ruthless. I’m too tired to get home. In the morning, you’ve vacated. I leave. Next time I see you, you’re with someone else and I don’t understand the attraction. I only ever knew your first name and now that’s gone too. I meet you at an underground bar. You’re almost a stranger. Someone I’m not sure I’ve seen before. I take you back to my place. We have awkward sex. I don’t see you again, don’t remember your name or even what you looked like. I meet you at an underground bar. I’ve never noticed you before. You take me back to your place. We fuck. It’s not great. In the morning there’s that awkwardness making me wish I’d found my way home the night before. I don’t want to see you again. You keep calling. I unplug the phone. Forget your name. I meet you at an underground bar. The curiosity and attraction are mutual, perhaps mutually guarded. We see each other for months but never feel particularly close. I’m late bleeding, but it comes. I mention to you that sometimes that can happen if a woman becomes pregnant but it doesn’t take. You say you’re relieved and go on to say that if I was pregnant, you’d have to marry me. Yours is not a sincere proposal, or even a sincere consideration of the possible circumstance. You abandon me at the farmers’ market while I buy apples. I remember your first name and vaguely what you looked like. I meet you at an underground bar. You’re a complete stranger. I take you back to my place and we try, but can’t. You become frustrated with your body, frustrated with my coaxing. We lie still and touching but can’t sleep. I don’t remember your name or what you looked like. I meet you at an underground bar. You’re not a complete stranger. Someone I’ve wondered about for a while. I take you back to my place. We have sex. It’s not bad for a first time. Almost like making love. You hold me and I fall asleep contented, but by morning you’ve deserted. I develop an annoying, stinging itch, which passes quickly with the right medication. Next time I see you, you pretend we’ve never met. I go to an underground bar. Looking around the room, I calculate that I’ve had sex with roughly a third of the patrons. At the early indications of an anxiety attack, I leave abruptly and alone.
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