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We are an HBO original series.
Two girls in a cheap apartment,
New Orleans-style wrought iron balconies
and a cement pool out the front door.
I lay out in my bikini all summer.
Sometimes you join me and sit in a rusted lawn chair.
You work with horses at a country club,
I work at an independent bookstore.
Just two liberal arts graduates trying
to pay off student loans and vaguely enjoy life.
We always promise to visit each other at work
but we never do.
We have a party−BYOB−with snacks
and Cards Against Humanity. Your boyfriend comes,
so does his ex, and he flirts with both of you
while we all sit on the fake hardwood floor
and pretend to be drunk (Fun tip!
When your man asks you to go down on him,
try surprising him with raptor attacks instead!).
At 11:00 I throw everyone out
because you’re tired of people
and he doesn’t notice. He doesn’t deserve
to be the one who saves you.
Your parents split and my sister becomes a stripper
and you break up with your boyfriend.
“Tell me how you feel,” I say.
But you’re not a verbal processor.
Sometimes I day-drink, cheap sangria
with lime and strawberries in a purple glass
I bought at NUTS−Neat Used Things for Sale.
I thought you generally drank more than me,
three Jack and cokes every time we go out,
thought it would be constant giggles and delirium
when we moved in together.
But I am a casual, fun, flirty, social alcoholic
and you drink to get drunk.
One night we see your new guy
at the pub. After he ignores you for half an hour
then comes to flirt like nothing is amiss,
I best-friend-haze: “I thought you’d be cuter in person!”
He laughs as he rubs your thigh under the bar.
You never forgive me.
Sometimes I go to coffee shops alone
and sit under dangling white lights.
Stare at an exposed brick wall,
cradle a cup of Earl Grey.
You dare me to try Tinder
so I go on a few dates with a Jewish Carpenter.
Basically Jesus with a few drug problems.
He’s sweet, studied engineering at LSU,
and wants to make me a cutting board.
I would probably get a lot of nice furniture,
but I also want to be in love.
Sometimes, I convince you to play drinking games:
Shots of vodka every time Scott Pilgrim says “exes”.
Late night, multi-colored twinkle lights,
and I climb into your bed to ward off nightmares.
I buy a blender as a health initiative.
Plus, strawberry smoothies sound amazing.
The packing materials, cardboard and paper and a box,
stay on the table for a few days while I decide
whether to keep the millennial pink base.
I make you a smoothie.
Sometimes, you tell me you love me
and we’ll be friends forever and
you need me so much and you will never hurt me.
I say I’m going to use my blender
to make my first breakfast shake, and
you explode about my stuff always being everywhere,
say I can’t make a smoothie at 9:00 in the morning
because you want to sleep in, tell me I’m selfish and this is why
no one wants to live with me,
threaten to throw the blender in the pool.
I say some things I’m not proud of.
You punch me in the face.
I never stop watching a series
in the middle. I believe in the gospel
of redemptive plot lines and finishing things.
But I steal cardboard packing boxes from work,
pile novels and lacy dresses and dishes in my bedroom.
Take another swig of sangria
from my purple thrift store glass.
I’ll leave before you figure out
how to survive without me. |
