Better Than Fair

I felt an excess of women in the room, an excess of mattering, that the presence of one other penis almost went completely unnoticed until it didn't and then it was all I could focus on.

I didn't even notice the chairs.  I was focusing on the counter, on hysterics, on missing art.  I'd found some poor sad sap to listen to my rant, reach for my headphones, from floor to ceiling.  

There is no point in pointing.  I would just shower and sweat, wash the sheets and sweat, shave and chafe and sweat. 

I would move in, unable to afford your license or the clown-car that is New York, read Russian literature or translate and waste all the brilliant phrasing I've been hoarding.  I approve of lanugo.  

I roast, I tan, I sweat lines and rue the week.