Cat Dixon
For My Last Lover

It was 11pm, the workshop was over, but our group of five played spin the bottle, and when we ran out of drinks, we packed into Joy's car and headed to the nearby gas station. When you lit up a cigarette in the backseat, I turned around and gasped, "You smoke?" You put the cigarette out and I wouldn't make eye contact until we, back in her apartment, found the bottle between us and you leaned in to kiss me, your hand on the back of my head. During truth or dare, you said you had never kissed anyone (besides these silly bottle games) so I gave you two more drinks. You pretended to be drunk so I offered you a ride and I dared you to come to my bed. Dared you to touch my breast. Dared you to live with my disease.

The madness drove you to shave your head. I want to meet again at Taco Bell six weeks later with you, 22, pale skin and bones and bald head, wearing that white t-shirt and me begging you, please, eat something. You staring at the menu. The wide-eyed teenage cashier says, "Man, you just get out of the hospital or something?' And I laugh until I cry, until I lose my breath. When the food is ready, the cashier, confused, gives us a free order of cinnamon twists and whispers to you, "Get better." When he returns to the counter, he glares at me—I knew he really saw me and that you didn't. You didn't care that my hair was a rope strangling your neck and that every man I lassoed has cut free. I offered you scissors, a pocketknife, and a letter opener. You refused and never smoked a cigarette again.

When I led you to my bed, you pulled me close and I let down my hair—you found the tower full of razors, men, baby bottles. No one had entered this place before. Your heart pounded hard against my back as we lay there and I wondered why you couldn't catch your breath and why my eyes kept watering. You massaged my sore head and in the morning washed the dishes in the sink. I want to be there again. Lead you to my bed, strip off your shirt, and feel your fingers tugging at my dress.