I wake with a girl in my bed on Wednesdays. I wake to her Mother calling. The cell phone vibrates on the floor.
I pass it to her and watch as she mumbles into the receiver with closed eyes. A piece of jewelry hangs from her septum. Her black, dirty hair sprawls out on the pillow case of palm trees. She smells of cigarettes and worn clothes.
She looks beautiful.
After she hangs up a slow moan seeps from her. I kiss her cheek. Bury my face between her neck and shoulder.
“I have to go,” she says.
She always says she has to go.
I shake my head, but she rises anyway. Standing on the bed in disorientation, she grabs her socks and shoves them in the book bag she brought with her. Her box of cigarettes are on the floor and she picks them up. Checks to see how many there are. Puts the box in her purse.
Once she pulls on the brown fabric boots she wore in, she looks towards the bathroom mirror and rustles her hair this way and that.
I lay and observe. Quietly. Patiently.
Eventually she looks down at me and I smile.
I smile while staring into her hazel eyes.
Then she leaves. She’s out the door and I’m alone.
That’s a Wednesday morning.