am I on the train today?

that was the year that every new shirt I put on felt novel, amiss against my skin, with
buttons that never looked reasonable.

that was the year I wore headphones everywhere I went, not because I was listening to
music, it just made it easier when people talked to me to point at my ears and
keep walking.

that was the year that things never looked so good.

that was the year I stayed up all night most nights, scouring the city for women with
really bad skin. the streets I found them on seemed like they should have meant
something but they were just streets and every time I turned around there was
another one in the offing.

that was the year the woman with the worst skin I’d ever gone out with told me her name
was team. she had a friend with her who called herself summer. they seemed too
young for the plunge because it’s not as effortless as some make it look. you know what I mean, the way you become fascinated by someone in an
underground station and then the train happens some magic, a disappearing act, flowers in your hair. or the way you tell a lie in a bar, like giving a false name, and you’re stuck with it.

that was the year I fell for a woman with the worst skin ever and breathed her in. there
was no way to get close enough. I’d point to my ears and try to keep walking
but most of the people who seem missing turn up sooner or later.

that was the year I woke up at four in the morning and found her sleeping so I watched.
it creeped me out. sometimes you’ve given all you can give.

that was the year her father sold newspapers above the stairs of a muni train stop. he had
a picture of himself on one side of his booth with a caption underneath that said
once there was spring. he had the same picture on the other side and underneath
that one it said you’ve seen this face somewhere before. he was a grizzled old
bastard with gray curly hair that he never washed, or hardly ever. he wouldn’t
talk to you or ever look up from his book when you bought a paper. he’d just point to this five gallon plastic paint bucket and you’d hand over the fifty cents. every morning I’d throw the change in violently and say to him take that you fucker. one morning I took a paper out from under the brick he used to hold them down. the red brick dust got on my hands and on the paper like it did every morning, but I just stood there this time reading. he pointed at the bucket and I kept reading. he pointed again and I said you smell old man. he reached into his pocket and dropped fifty cents into the bucket without looking up.
I slept with your daughter last night, most nights actually.
team or summer.
team. I never knew they were sisters.
that one, he said, that one has always been hungry for blood.