revised 02/07/12

She always did what he said—
like meet on a school night
even though her roommate thought he was an ass.
He was late for the date again
but her complaint was caught in the swell of her next breath
and the cozy coffee against her lips.

She always did what he said—
her roommate was out, so he be-bopped by for a drink.
She set her half filled cup, edges stained a glossy pink,
on the table next to her daisy duvet double bed.
Corners tucked. Pillows fluffed.
Just enough room for two.

She always did what he said—
didn't move as he unbuttoned her jeans,
didn't make a sound as he
pushed her flat on the stomach. Her face pressed in the pillow
as the bed knocked the cup,
spilling a sticky sweet stain
on the sheets.

She always did what he said—
always grabbed him a tissue,
always returned his hug.
He lost her trust,
but with three empty words
it won't mean much.