The Ex-Girlfriend

I still want her. I must be stupid. My stomach carried
Jack Daniels and Keystone. She filled her lungs with
Hash. Her eyes were bloodshot. Each horizontal
surface was covered with empty beer cans; the
smell of marijuana invaded my nostrils and primal
urges surfaced. She wrapped her arms around my neck.
My pants became restrictive. I wanted her. Her white
stockings went up to the middle of her thighs; her skirt
barely hid her thong. She was wearing boots like girls
that star in porn Guys had been looking at her all night,
girls wanted her dead. She knew it, she loved it. We whispered
slurred desires to each other, positions, and when it would
happen. She ran her hand down my chest. She wanted to smoke.
She wanted her purse. She wanted my keys. She took them
away as soon as they were out of my pocket. She walked
through the crowd and I talked with friends about how difficult
she was to resist…for twenty minutes. My brother came
in and looked at me. The frown on his face told me something
was wrong. I called her twice and got her voicemail both times.
I pushed aside friends, acquaintances and strangers. I got outside
and found two black marks going south. I kicked a rock as hard
as I could. If only it had been her. I went inside and tell my friends.
She came back then. I had the munchies she said. I didn’t
think you would mind since you’re so drunk. She threw my keys
at me and walked back into the house.