It's a single, wiry hair lodged between my two front teeth — the size and texture of a price tag fastener.
Rest assured it's not from your crotch. It's from your beard, which I used to like [but now I hate].
Last night, when you called, I was almost asleep.
"Are you home?" you asked. I could barely hear you over the noises in the background. Girls and rap music. "Can I come over?" You sounded like me on a bad day, but I’d wanted to sleep with you since we matched on Tinder. "Sure," I said. "Come over."
When you finally showed up, you were inexplicably wearing a Christmas sweater with red velvet sweatpants. But somehow, I still found you painfully attractive.
We made out, you said you couldn’t get hard, and then you excused yourself to the balcony for a smoke.
Alone in my room, I grazed the tip of my tongue against the backs of my teeth and felt your hair between my lower central incisors.
When you returned, I suggested we reschedule for another time. "I’m not really feeling it tonight. Plus, you’re a lot drunker than I thought you were." You stared at me, vacantly. "But I Ubered here," you said. "I know," I sighed. "And I’ll pay for your Uber home. I’m sorry." There was a full half-minute of silence between us. Then finally, you said, "I hate the fact that you’re circumcised. Plus, you should do some squats."
I must’ve looked stunned, because I was.
I felt my mouth fall open and my eyebrows rise to mid-forehead.
Then, without saying a word, you pulled on your sweater, grabbed your keys and stormed out of the apartment — slamming the door behind you.
This morning, I am sitting at a café on Magazine called Mojo.
I am sipping a caramel latte from an oversized mug and watching a pair of red-haired women split a muffin.
And I am flicking my tongue against the single, springy hair that’s wedged between my teeth.
A ribbon wrapped around my finger — reminding me to get my flat ass to the gym later.
