Tag Archives: hook-ups

Shrödinger’s Cat Call

Her room is a box, obscured from view,
and the fallout from emotive radiation

dies in half life. Sexual reality is non-local
unless you open up your eyes, so you sit

there in the black, cloaked in macroscopic
indeterminacy and sense the superposition

of her body curled away beneath the sheets.
Both of you exist on infinite worlds, just as long

as you remain that way —you both never see
her again as well as stay with her forever while

simultaneously continuing to rendezvous like
this for several months of vague, non-committal

emotional confusion, misconstrued between
your friends. Perhaps you’ve gone home with

another girl than the one who left the party —
hell, perhaps another guy — while at once

you went home alone, and never left the house
at all. Or maybe she’s The One (although

as long as we’re discussing physical science
and probability, that one seems particularly

unlikely however still completely possibly). But
the witness draws an outcome, and as soon

as one observes this quantum entanglement
of two distinct bodies on wavering strings,

the action exerts a force between them, a force
so powerful it destroys every world but One.

Because sometimes, when you’re trapped in the
vastness of space, it’s better to stay in the dark.

69 Love Songs

I awoke to the pungent smell of sweat, come, and Febreze. It reminded me of freshly chopped sweet onions, and it burned my weary eyes all the same. In the distance, I could hear the reverberated decay of stubby, clumsy fingers sliding heavily against nickel-wound strings. I glanced the room, but it wasn’t until I saw the posters on the wall that I fully remembered what happened the night before: Fight Club, Pulp Fiction, Animal House, all the classic male masturbation fantasies. And I’d fallen for the same old shit again.

I grabbed an oversized Boston University hoodie from his pile of clothes nearby, and after I was (mostly) certain it was cleaned, I pulled it on over my head. I was never one for cuddling with strangers that I had just met at the bar, but I wasn’t comfortable leaving the room in nothing but last night’s wrinkled clothes. I squeezed into my jeans and left to find the bathroom.

“I’m sorry; did I wake you up?” he asked, before I’d even step completely of the bedroom doorway. He was sitting on a worn out grey-brown couch, strumming an acoustic guitar.

“Oh, no. No, not at all,” I said, not entirely confident in my ability to lie this early in the morning.

“That’s good. I was just working on a song I’ve been writing. But I figured I should let you sleep.” Then, a carefully calculated pause, as if the idea had just suddenly come. “Hey — would you want to hear it?”

I had the feeling that even if I said “no,” he would have played it anyway, but I didn’t want to be rude.

And when you said that things were different,” he sang, “I thought that we could stay the same / but even on the darkest mornings / you know the stars still light up your name…

I immediately wished that I had been rude. But still he kept singing:

But baby, it’s a brand new world / I hope you’ll make it for me / Baby, won’t you give it a whirl? / Just let your heart go free / and stay with me…

I suddenly regretted hooking up with about 85% of the guys I met in college. Still, here I was at 27, and somehow in my inebriation, I had fallen for the same old crap. Sure — in my sobriety, if you can call the morning that, I could see it for what it was. But apparently I regressed 7 years last night.

“Hey, I should actually get going…” I interrupted, as politely as I could. “I’ve got this, umm —”

“Oh, well — can you at least stay for breakfast? It’s just about done. Do you like bacon?”

Suddenly, the morning after didn’t seem so bad.