He took me to dinner.
Some french place that wouldn't serve me a beer.
"We only have wine, and all of it's clear."
He told me about his hairplugs.
he wanted me to run my fingers through it.
After, i washed them until they were prunes.
We fucked against a hand dryer
And he drove me home in a rusted car
with a hole in the floor on the passanger side.
I saw him the next night
and sighed over his financial advice,
watched his tie struggle against rolls of skin.
But when i took my high heels off
he laughed at how tall i was still.
That was when i sent him home, all that it took.
I'll wait again for the next computer generated match
and tap my fingers against my water glass
listening to the beat of some sort of battery operated heart.
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