I ran into her briefly,
Saturday morning,
while I was coming up,
from the alcohol-laden
Friday night.

Her hair was down.
She said I looked down.
Criss-crossed her arms
about my shoulder blades,
felt them cut into her wrists,
we were at her place.

The dog kept bark-bark-barking,
the fan was roaring, rattling carrying
twenty years of noise,
I asked how her fella was.

"Eh, okay."

"Good okay?"

No response, she asked if I wanted
to watch a Disney movie.
I laughed.
Told her I had to go to a funeral.

"I'm sorry, baby."

"No, biggie. She was old. Expected."

I was sitting on the corner of her bed.
Looking at my depressing hair, and overgrown
scruff in her painted mirror, encrusted with
cheap jewelry, a sea of turquoise and islands of pink.

She put on some deep cuts by The Knife.
That's all The Knife has.
Asked if I liked it.
I said I loved it.

"Good" she grinned as she got up and flipped
the switch.
It didn't darken the room much, given
that it was closing in on 10 a.m.

She walked slowly toward me.
Ran her fingers through her hair.
Her hair was down.
She told me to stop being so down.

"That's all I know," I said with an air of arrogance.

"I'll break that," as she climbed on top of me,
planting her firm buttocks in my lap,
criss-crossed her arms,
about my blades,
told me to touch her thighs.

"I just don't have the time."

"Give me a few minutes, please."

I kissed the intersection of Molly's neck, Molly's ear,
deep exhale,
"I got to go."

"God, okay. Church tomorrow?"

"I doubt it."