Oh, I can feel her fingernails dragging down, digging into my back as I grit my teeth and squint to keep from growling and rolling over for another round beyond my overspent limit.
It's she, rolling me over, stradling me, her knees at my ribcage, but it's only her grin that fuels me to slay dragons of my business surrounds that day (one that finds me singing aloud on the commute).
I grab a shower, gray suit, dark green-turtled tie she gave me from our Brooks Bros. stop in San Francisco. A sweet kiss and traditional bun squeezes send me into the daylight's freeway fray.
Voice-mail on the way home, "I took my stuff, am gone, and have a new phone" cause the tears-blinded hurtle of my car into the driveway to find an emptyness where there's not a shred of her existence outside picture frames and a damp towel. Her secret, greater love has won-out, cocaine surpassing me taking control at nearly a thousand bucks a week and spiriting her off to Texas with an enabler more clued-in than I.
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