I don’t feel anything like that
for her;
only one woman
has ever –
or, I’ll be bound, will ever –
do that to me.

But then, I haven’t considered
how her stare would sharpen in the haze
of her room with its red gauze shade.
How she’d drop her buttoned-down,
pop-collared shirt over white shoulders
rolled back and black-strapped.

Nor have I imagined
her left hand in its fingerless glove
wielding a holder of Bangladeshi jade
as she drags the “yummy” stuff
she says is worth cancer
or at least
worth enjoying now
and hoping for medical breakthroughs later.

I think but don’t say:
“Twenty-one’s young yet,
so maybe your wisdom’s raw in the middle.”
She flashes her clever white teeth.
The concrete steps
through the seat of my slacks
are just the right amount of chill.