after getting jerked around by the floor manager who changed the servers’ sections three times in one night and going into the back room to put my hair up once it was decided i would be expoing (even with my skirt and low-back top) to meet his eyes for the first time in weeks, i had my fifth and sixth cigarette of the day with you. you roll them yourself, sitting on the curb, talking to me of street artists and offering gentle, matter-of-fact advice. you have a strange way of listening, a better way; i’m sorry i was so self-centered. you ask me about my tattoo, moving closer and borrowing my lighter. there is a book by ayn rand in my bedroom—i am trying to figure you out. it’s something to do while waiting. i’m sorry that i will be so selfish.