I was supposed to meet you at the MOMA for Les Savy Fav. We had to check our phones at the door, so I figured I would find you after the show. A couple songs in--I feel you come behind me. You kiss the back of my neck and tickle my wrist.
I say, "Hi."
And you say, “2nd floor bathroom 10 minutes."

I was rather enjoying the terrible sound and awesome outfits, but 10 minutes later –like clockwork- I meet you. We fuck silently while people walk in and out--you taste like cigarettes. Only when I taste you do I miss not smoking, and I still really hate you for that. You apologize for not calling me back; I tell you I prefer it that way.

I go back to the show and stare blankly at the sweat stains on Tim Harringtons black unitard.