I Don’t Regret Briefly Loving A Man In An Open Relationship

A flash-memoir

The bottom of the wine bottle beguiles a backward attempt at birth control as we sweat against each other for one briefly masculine moment. He leaves, omitting details inclusive of his name. I smoke on December’s balcony, freezing, squeezing my legs together, like trying to squeeze a sliced apple into cohesion. The bed is laughing with damp sheets as I discuss my self with myself, the acrimony of aloneness a brief joke until two weeks from now when Facebook destroys fantasy, “open relationship”, pause to good feelings even as our sweaty sex-like occasions continue for years, interspersed with absolute invisibility..


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