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— i took a shower and tried to catch my breath.
You were lying on top of the bedspread
in boxer shorts, watching cartoons and laughing but not making any sound.
I.
and the strain he’s smoking is a type of offensively sweet, choking, saccharine thing that creates a blurry haze in your vision and a lump in your throat and itch in your teeth. but you don’t mind because you're reaching out to him and he’s pulling you on top and you sweat into the scratchy hotel room sheets and think about the thread count you’re gonna have after all the plans fall through and you can use hundred dollar bills as door stops.
there is: his breath the same as yours, your fingertips tracing the rims of bullet holes through the hardwood of a coffee table, your fingertips tracing the sharp parts of his teeth, someone holding your hand to get your first and then second and then third tattoo, a thumb over your knuckles and a palm over the knobs in your spine, flickering lights of late night pizza stops and soda on your tongue and bubblegum on his and artificial flavors and his mouth making you forget the sticky film left on your tongue.
you tell him that when you are finished you can’t wait to see what you’ll do next and he regards it as a plural and you don’t know what to do but agree. so there is a boy underneath you and his shirt on your shoulders and he is falling in love and you are prepared to let him.
II.
and then the strain you’re smoking is probably too expensive to be wasted as money spent on weed but you have enough of it now that all you can smell these days is dollar bills and the bank cheques that you’re sending out. you are some type of confident and finger the gold chain around your neck and slap palms down on the rickety tables you use to make your deals. there is only one seat for you in your private jet.
there is: gunpowder in crates, the velvet ropes of VIP lounges, light up LED displays telling you the time and your balance and how much weight you’ve been losing and the directions to the nearest bathroom, the man across from you swipes on an ipad and looks at you through his frames like you’re small and then two days later you buy out every asset in his company and liquidate it. nobody you trust enough to share a bed with because you are in too deep to not be scared of ulterior motives and you’re pretty sure your murder would qualify as an assassination.
you say you miss him but only to the fogged up mirror of your bathroom after a shower that you write your name in, in big loopy letters to take up the space. you can see yourself in the tracks and really don’t want to, at least not now.
III.
and then it really doesn’t matter what you two are drinking or smoking or saying to each other, you hear he got arrested and found he changed his name and found out, again, that while you’re richer he’s respected like you can’t be. but you don’t mind because you’re sitting side by side on a chaise and sharing space and his fingers are there- right there- by your hip and you almost want to reach out and touch and even lick and slip your stupid gaudy rings right onto his hands one by one.
there is: hesitance and familiarity, the knock knock jokes he told you that he’s using again like you won’t remember, the way he likes his martini shaken not stirred and the way you see him smile watching bond films and the way he’s not really smiling now. a girl standing next to him with her nails on his shoulder and a posture to her spine that would frighten you if anything did anymore. polished shoes, a hand helping you hold a gun, the blinking green check that says you’ve approved a shipment to the artemis, the hiss of a depressurizer, his eyelashes fanned out against your cheek.
you don’t say anything but you hold his hand when you shove the pen in your pocket and press the ignition. in the space between detonation and confirmation there is nothing but this- his smile and yours, something about partners, and maybe you always did it better when you had a safety net to fall back on.