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room 510

My cell phone chimes and I look at it with one hand as the other grasps a glass of whiskey drowning ice.​ 

 

You message me saying you're in the lobby waiting for the elevator, and you send me a puckered golden face with a red heart leaving from its lips. I’m sure you send this emoji to every man you chat, but still, it curls the ends of my numbing lips (an involuntary thing). 

 

"I’m on the fifth floor. Room 510 by the ice machine," I message you back. 

 

Then I look at myself in the mirror and think I look good enough, but I take a swallow straight from the bottle just to make sure that I do.

 

And then I hear three knocks so soft and slow. So I place my faded face against the door and look at you through the peephole.And the person on the other side does not look like the photo on my phone, which you sent me an hour ago.

 

I mean, you look somewhat like yourself, only twisted and skewed and melting on yourself, but maybe I’ve had too much whiskey.​

 

So I block your number from my phone and wait for you to understand that I'm a dick — a lonely jerk.

 

So I lay myself on the mattress, which swallows me whole. And I watch strangers on my phone do everything I wanted to do with you. 

 

An Account of a Near One-Night Stand (OR A Half-Hearted Apology to the Odd-Looking Man on the Other Side)

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