Thats the second time the Australian got on the same bus as me.
Every date lately has left it’s own mark, the way a dog pisses on a tree.
This one sucked on my finger at the Rio theatre while girls accused of witchery lit up the screen.
I could feel it. Each bumpy ridge at the top of his mouth.
I’ll chalk it up to a cultural misunderstanding.
Acknowledgement is always left at the door as he walks past me down the bus aisle.
The doors close and the bus moves on,
And I bet his tongue glides over the top ridges of his mouth as he contemplates where it all went wrong.