I still don’t believe in love at first sight, but you’re the first boy I’ve ever called “perfect” so quickly.

She told me you were a sweetheart, and that if her parents could learn to see past the color-line, she’d

 want you for herself.

Since parents never learn, she wants me to have you.

She called you a sweetheart, but I learned long ago that girls lie.

And then I met you.

You called her to ask if I wanted anything.

Out of the blue, no additonal questions asked, no what-would-you-get-out-of-it—reimbursement was

not a condition of your saying, “Okay.”

She told me you were a sweetheart, but still I needed to see for myself.

You called us to say you were driving over, but promised you wouldn’t be driving back—you knew [we

 knew] better than that.

Shook my hand as I climbed in your backseat, wishing I were smaller.

Asked me where I’m from, what I do, what I like.

Once we got to the party you gave me mine, a gift—did things right from the start.

And when I’d sufficiently floated away to my happy place, thinking I could grind against the wall, ignore

the fight and it would go away, you were the one to listen to her say the party was over, we had

to get out of her fucking house now!

Temporarily fearless, I wanted to lead the way, but you held me back, saying you’d go first—no one

knew what we’d find upstairs.

The five of us found our coats and left the house, traipsing through the streets in search of the nearest

bus stop.

You were walking next to me, and I announced that I’d like some help with that whole walking thing—

my high heels and I were not getting along—half-truth, half-ploy to get you to touch me, as I

expected that you or someone else would extend an arm, let me lean on you.

Going more than one step forward, you squatted down like it was suddenly the early nineties again and

we were children playing piggyback…you wanted me to mount you, not the other way around.

Laughed it off, but I was touched, and then touch me you did, taking my arm: I was now being escorted.

I thought you were smiling in the picture on the bus, but seeing, later, your funny face made me laugh.

She asked where was her homecooked meal, which in moments became the idea of pancakes at this

hour! the no longer wee hours of the morning.

And despite your state, you sweet-talked our way into your apartment building and got out the box of

Bisquick—my wonderful chef.

Keeping your promise, our bellies were soon full of flour all syrupy-sweet: now we’re too tired to go

back to her dorm.

Hearing, you reappeared: a sleeping bag, a mat, blankets and a pillow—no questions asked.

Two days later on the train, staring out the window-seat as always, the graffiti artists had borned an

unorthodox phrase: next to one another, unmatching scripts, not belonging together but in the

same place at the same time, masquerading [hoping, wishing] as a unit—DRUNK SAVIOR.