Touch Me

These days, I sleep lopsided in the bed, made up with my Egyptian cotton sheets that I bought with my guy from Target. For a long time I had no one but my son and men in short installments. My son is an adult now.

This guy is tall and slim with wire glasses. He’s a runner, like me. He has no large intestine. When I see his scars, I can’t help but wonder what it feels like. He practices Thai Chi, goes to mass every Sunday.

In the bed, he says it has been years. I try to show him what it means to touch me. I am a teacher by profession. Afterwards, he laughs. With the last guy, he’d pull me in and hug me.

When he comes, he opens the garage door. I had to go away. I asked him to house-sit, and when I came back I found my home with all his things there.

I think of other breakups. I imagine all my exes: opponents, yet a team, exchanging our batons, dropping them, then bending. Carrying them again until we can’t stand to keep them.