Bone of Contention

“So this is the bone of contention,” she says. She’s winning, t-shirt, both socks, all her underwear, hat, and I’m down to jockeys, left sock and watch. “You see me differently than anyone else; I can’t hide any of myself from you.” Full house and I lose my watch. “But I’m still in love with him.” Pair of eights and she loses her hat. Three queens and she does the magic trick girls do, where they pull their bra from their sleeve. “But the nights all seem to have teeth without him.” Two pair, jacks and threes. I lose my sock. The game is getting thin, so thin. “You don’t have to leave, my bed will hold us both.” Straight from nine, she slithers her shirt over her head. We sip our drinks. We let the smoke drift from our cigarettes hang thick above our heads. Ace high, and she hooks her thumbs under the elastic and slides her panties down, with a twist, over her ankles. But she’s still wearing her socks, she’s still ahead, and I am cold under the fluorescent of her kitchen lights, my skin puckered; I don't understand her logic. Aces and eights. She owns my jockeys and I am drunk, she is drunk, and she laughs and waves my last token over her head like a flag dancing stumble in her socks. She tosses me a washcloth to cover my junk. I do see her differently, I know why she is drunk, and I know why she called me. She’s not my type all angles and I like my girls with real estate in the hip, but oh my god, the temptation of bare flesh; Later I will hold her, with her back to me, so she can fold into my warm. There’s no deal to close here, all hands have been dealt, I know how she’ll feel in the morning. She doesn’t want me; she just isn’t down with the jaws of being alone.