Did you know who I was, when I came in?
You seemed like you did. Like I was someone. Like you recognized a rumor of me.
And that’s good. It makes it easier. It’s easier when I walk in, and people see me, and know who I am. Know that I’m someone. If they vie to take me with them when the club closes, I have my pick. I have choices. Choices mean... options. They mean, not having to worry about what happens when the doors close, and the lights come up and the music stops.
You seemed so eager to take me home with you. Into a shining clean apartment. New furniture, still unpacking.
New. New to Haven. New to me.
Someone is always new. Touched before maybe, but not by me. New to me.
Did I want? Did I want to top, did I want a line, did I want to spend the night? Of course. Because you were new, and yes, and yes and yes.
You. Asleep, because it’s early morning. Responsible people time. Responsible people are finishing up the last dregs of sleep for the night. Like you. In an hour or so, your alarm will go off to wake you up for another day, like the one before. In an office, behind a desk. Telling the same jokes to the same people around the same watercooler. Same tie, same mug, same chair.
Maybe I was new to you.
Written the summer after I got out of rehab.