| A Poem in the Before Choice Disturbs collection
I can't believe he asks me
did you fuck her?
as if that would explain why I
feel the way I do. I say,
no, it's different from that,
but I don't think he gets it
his eyes travel to the
side of his head, like he's
in on some sort of secret.
How many women do you care about like that?
grabbing the ashtray, since he ran out of cigarettes.
No, the question should be how many people.
All right,
he digs.
A number?
No.
Then, a few.
Uh huh,
he says,
I fuck her,
lighting a butt he
picked out of the ashtray.
| 
