Wasted Words

We didn’t get to have one night in Paris. Rather, it was three, all of them spent on the pull-out couch of a mutual friend in Madison. Both of us considered refusing to attend the party in which we met, and we discussed at length what might have happened if one, the other, or neither had shown up. I drew a terrible charcoal sketch of you, you bought my coffee and whiskey. On the third night, you said you were supposed to return to Marquette in the morning. But I can tear up the bus ticket, you said. If you tell me to, I will. You just have to mean it. We tangled like swimmers who knew they were doomed.