Your wallet tapping against your thigh, it too, couldn’t wait for the role you’ll play in the brothel of my mind. An image of every man I’d ever imagined—there you were, cold in the way men should be. It could be that you’re an author in gunmetal-gray slacks, and you’re off to meet with your publisher. With you, lighting my cigarette within your cupped hands, under an arched passageway in the winter breeze, could turn me into your muse. Why else would it be like that? Wait, I’m ...
