Saliva and Glue

Dear Louie,

We sang Wonderwall together under our breath in your boss's hybrid SUV with the windows rolled down. This morning you gave me 4 dollars to buy breakfast; I went into the only deli that was open at 6:00 a.m. in Long Island City. Sesame bagel, cream cheese, tea. Fuck. I still feel bad about eating that cream cheese. I tried to speak to the man behind the counter but words fell out of my mouth like sunken, plastic battleships.

I walked that block, 7 train roaring overhead, back to your boss's car and we drove to a rest stop in Delaware... or maybe it was New Jersey. I don't know. You ordered a Roy Roger's breakfast sandwich with American cheese and sausage. I can still hear your tongue, your teeth, attacking it. Sticky. You gave me 3 dollars for shitty tea.

Your saccharine laugh makes me nervous.

At 6 p.m., after a couple of hours in Maryland, you took me out to dinner at Ruby Tuesday. I didn't speak while you recounted war stories from Iraq. You said that you don't like making friends because it is too hard to watch a bullet lodge into their brain. Why did you repeatedly call the waitress baby? Are the scars on your face from the war?

We left Ruby Tuesday, heading north for Staten Island. Hands on the driver's wheel, lips squeezing that black straw, sucking in wild berry lemonade.

Why can't I trust you?