Full moon, raw denim, and I'm back all. Google "Men's Hairstyle 2017" and oblige myself. Low faded. Enough on top. Something to grab onto. Pantomiming a stripper's routine on every other streetlight. This is me now. I've acquired an English accent. And I've become quite knowledgable in the ways of brandy. Three drinks in. Settle down. Slow burn. Whisper. I could carve up the fog, I could make this moment holy, I recognize her and could acknowledge it. Look into my eyes and wait for it. She says. She says my eyes are gray. I gently tell her gray isn't an eye color and we're off, shitkicking through this door chime city on a Wednesday, we're on and off the level. She goes white when I fall. I fall on Griffin Street. I scrape. I scrape my knee and the blood runs in rivulets and falls, spaced and reticent to the ground. There's this bar, I say, this bar goes empty around midnight. I want to take you there. She says, What are you looking for? I might be able to help you find it.

I'm looking for rain on a Saturday morning window. I'm looking for someone to paint wearing nothing but tall socks in my living room. Someone who insists on hyphenating her last name. Oils. She should be using oils. I'm looking to be hexed, to be chained. I've dulled, you know? I've become fat with routine. I've become fat with casual ***. I need to hand over—I don't know the best word for it—control, maybe?

We've tried that all before, she says.

I'm nostalgic for it. I get that way. Now and again.

Nostalgia, she says. You can't double back on time, can't control its ebb.

I don't need a takeaway. You asked what I was looking for. I answered.

It's out of your reach.

Say it again. Let me prove you wrong.

I'm not in the mood for this.

So much hangs on the word of a woman. I feel like I've been waiting my whole life for the right words to fall from your lips. Every interaction charged and then diffused when the actual words arrive. I would say anything to you, anything for you.

That's why so little hangs on the word of a man.