Last night, I watched you take him home to what was to be our house. The street where we lived was dark and ready for Christmas. The woods were dark, and the house was dark, and I watched you shut the door and go for the night. The next night, you welcomed me in. He was gone for the evening and wouldn't be home. We made dinner. Something spicy and Asian with bean sprouts and noodles and broth. Then, you walked over to the couch and slipped your pants down. You beckoned me over and then began beckoning yourself, and I finished it by slipping my tongue over you, kissing you, taking you in. You were smiling again, like I could feel when you told me you were happy on the phone. We watched the neighbors get taken away in an ambulance. And when we were finished, it was a new beginning. We cleaned up the kitchen and took our turns welcoming each other back. I took a seat in my warm and cozy study with the rows of books and antique origami. I began reading Ginsberg. And then I heard soft words exchanged through teeth. He was angry. His father had driven him to see you. To surprise you. He was in our house and he was upsetting you. He walked by the study after it got quiet. In the bedroom were a few of his clothes. Remnants of nights you would soon be forgetting. On the way out, he stepped in the office with an old Charlie McCarthy puppet missing its head and congratulated me. I was worth fighting for. I had you back. Nothing would ever be as classy, beautiful or true. After some more yelling and the slamming door you came into the study. You weren't crying and you weren't mad. He was gone and you were happy with me, like it's supposed to be. Like it could be. Like you want it to be. You sat with me in the large office chair and we read Ginsberg to each other for the night.
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