This thing with Kal, though, hasn’t been charted out. I’ve never seen him with another woman, though presumably, there have been many in his thirty-two years. I can’t even reconcile why he was okay with any of this, considering the last time I saw him, he fucked me raw and left before the sun was up. Only a poem, scribbled on a scrap piece of paper, and a black rose remained, making me wonder for a long time if I’d dreamed the entire encounter in the first place. Touch has a memory. O say, love, say, What can I do to kill it and be free? If anything, his parting words, though borrowed from
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