Bachata

 
He tucked a folded sheet of
toilet paper under my eyelashes
to stop the mascara.
 
I told him.
 
I told him about the poet.
The husband.
The ex husband  
The drinking.
The weight loss.  
The train fucking wreck of my life.  
 
And cried at the bar like a bitch.
So he ushered me to the  
toilet.  
Wretches like us
never let the  
bastards see us cry
 
When we were kids  
we promised we’d get  
hitched if we ever
made it to the old,
old age of 30.
 
We’d have the bougie life of
our mangled dreams,
adopt a couple of  
Bichon Frise,
and color coordinate
everything we own.
 
But instead,  
he’s fixing my makeup in  
a toilet stall
and we break
each other’s hearts
with shared sorrow.
 
He tells me his
secrets  
and he doesn’t cry  
as he dabs  
concealer  
under my eye while
trying to not touch  
anything.  
 
(Because he’s a little  
germ phobic and  
public bathrooms  
skeeze him out.)
 
Back at the bar he orders  
two shots of tequila.
I think of the poet
and remind him  
"if I take this,
I’m going to try to fight you
then fuck you."

Because, tequila!
 
He orders a second shot
and something slithers
past his gaze so fast
I miss it.
 
We drink to us.
Then we drink to us again.
And then one more.
Until we can smile.
 
Until we can smile,  
because together we’re that bitch,
a token queer uncouple  
tall, thin,  
well groomed
dripping  
arrogant grace  
and good humor;
 
since he
can’t fuck me,
people forgive us
for being beautiful together,  
and talk about hair,  
and shoes,
and wonder if  
he’ll hit on the husbands
 
Wonder if I’ll hit on
the husbands,
 
or wives.
 
It’s Latin night,  
and we part the crowd
and I’m sure something  
slithers behind
his eyes,
when our favorite  
bachata comes on.
 
I see it this time.
 
Elbows tipped,
eyes locked
strange smiles fading
Our bodies find the beat
like always.
 
But as we exhale and
float along the  
rails of the rhythm
it’s not like always
 
It’s less show-offy.
Less glittery.
 
It’s less.
 
And…  
 
His thigh between mine,
moving  
underwater
on a piston  
of the beat,
something slithers
along the periphery  
 
Just.
Out.
Of.  
Reach.
 
We slow.
Stop.
And for the  
first time
 
the song ends
 
on an  
 
inhale.