Blonde curls and Spray tans.
The soft tapping of heels on the hardwood floor of my living room.
I would trade these heels for sneakers.
I would trade these nails for scrapes and stocking tears.
I pause before the click of the latch, the action that validates my solitary state.

He's simple minded.
I watch the creases fold around my knees as I circulate around the room.
It's a gray sky but 'im glowing'.

I would trade this man for money.
I would trade this lie for awkward situation.

All those conversations, astute observations of the connection we felt once.
Pupils lock as inconspicuously as you touched the small of my back when you asked his name and political views.
Moderate, of course.
You could have liberated South Korea.

You spread the napkins, shined your shoes.
She doesn't love you.

Petty concerns and indifferent arguments tickled your fancy, yes.
More so than I'd expected.
The spit on her fingers is soiled with my animosity as she cleans the smudge of your bottom lip.
Bitch, whore, im smothered in ostentatious jealousy.
And we'd both thought that was a long, long time ago.

I've misjudged before.
But not you.
Never you.
His hand between my shoulder blades as he leads.
His eyes on my chest as he slides his fingers down my waist.
His lips on my lips how he makes me cringe as I carefully wipe the excess saliva off my chin.
Unpleasant, unjust, unorthodox.

And this time, I'm the fool.
And this time, I'm the 35 cent registration fee.