He’s a kid: Goofy. Baggy clothes, glasses tipping, ponytail slipping out of its band, as if it never meant to be there, arms and legs not committing to being anywhere. How did he get here? He interrupts me, shrugs and giggles, shirttail untucked, dawdles at my door till I let him in. But when his clothes come off, so does all that. Skin phosphorescent with pure intention, eyes with the sheen of light on water, he holds to what he wants, and he wants me, the way summer wants to come again, the way the Terminator wants Linda Hamilton dead. Well. Me, I think a man, just for being secretly and shockingly beautiful, should get what he wants, so I serve myself up, a half-moon of melon curving on the cool white plate of my bed. And oh, how his fingers twist in my hair. How he tells me my own name so I’ll never forget. And when he goes out later, half slip, half swagger, back to the offhand, half-assed world, I sit here, still buzzy, horny, humming. Next door some bluesy woman croons that if she can’t have love, she’ll die. I wonder: did I just get loved, or diminished? And if I peel off my last apology, can I stand to be this awake, alone, alive?