The Hurt Like Something Written

That I put down on paper instead of feel. She says we should be friends. I say she should leave. This is the end of the party, on Halloween.

I pull up in my car, see the man’s legs sticking straight out from the lazy-boy chair that’s been left by somebody in our complex. I’ve seen him there at least two days in a row, when I get home from work. I’ve heard him breathing, sleeping and snoring, like a man in search for a place to sit who found it, and had not thought twice. But now, drunk and hurt, I realize that I don’t hear his breathing, wonder if he is dead or soon will be. I stand there, looking at him conspicuously with my hoodie on, hands in pockets, gripping my pack of gum and cell phone, until I hear the bell on my cat’s collar, who got out previously and now wants to go back in. She’s hungry, wants some food and love, so I turn around and head up the stairs, tripping drunkenly on the first step, until I reach the top and then my apartment door and she slips snake-like through my legs and the crack before I can get it all the way open.