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I was wearing a skirt
in the kitchen
for the very first time,
as a friend of
mostly masculine clothes.
(in the usual sense.)

Fresh water and coffee beans
were - once again -
this blinking messiness' most cheering feature.

                                                             (the faucet: drip drip drip)

I needed
more milk.

you reached
to pour it out and spilled.
you said: "shit". In moments like these
I want to climb across the table
and roll
my face along
the side of your neck, your black
hair smelling warmly
of you and your retro shirt
and feel your tight shoulders squirm
with suppressed irritated laughter.

                                                             (drip drip.)

Instead I drummed my nails on the table,
trying to look casual,
and listened to
the mildly pitiful sigh
of my ever sarcastic
little red radio.

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