You were perverted and mean,
smiling across your beer
like you thought you knew my mind,
telling me I was good at all the things
the lady magazines told me were important.
It was humid enough
that our drinks pulled water from the air
to pool it in rings around our cups.
I imagined cutting off all your hair
with a pair of heavy scissors
I stole from my grandmother.
I could hear the decisive metal zip
of their old, whetted edges.
I thought myself slippery and special
when I left you there,
like I'd beaten a sexual default
with surprise celibacy.
It was dramatic and easy,
meaningless and smug,
to feel so free
while I slipped home alone
to an apartment without locks.