You invited me over, and you said hi and gave me a side hug when I walked in the door with a six pack of IPAs and a smile and some regrets, and then you left me with everyone else in the living room, and then went to your bedroom. There’s a girl in there, in your bedroom with you, and she’s playing guitar, and you’re listening very carefully, and there’s a lot of good music and sexual tension happening, I’m guessing. I won’t say for sure because I can’t actually see you because the girl is kind of big and blocks all of the open door space, but I can see her, playing guitar and singing like it’s the most important song she’s ever played, and you’re probably hanging on and off her every word, like it’s the most important song you’ve ever heard, which is the same way you listened to my songs on other nights, like just last week, last time you invited me over, and it all seems funny and disgusting in a way that makes me want to laugh and vomit at the same time. I laugh instead of vomit, and look up again and see her, as she sways her head now, with her eyes closed, like maybe she’s really feeling something, although you aren’t touching, at least I hope not, but like I said, I can’t fully see, so I don’t know if you’re touching yet. I’m sure you’ll at least be touching later, once the door is closed, when I can’t see inside. I’m not trying to look really, I just happen to be in your living room because you invited me here, and so I’m with all of your friends and my friends in the living room, which is right next to your bedroom, with the open door and with the girl whose head is swaying and whose eyes are closed, and I
wonder if you’re more into her, or she’s more into you, and I can’t tell. Probably both. Like I said, I want to vomit. This is what happens when I have a lot to think about you, you who is someone who used to think about me, and still invites me over, but seems pretty busy thinking about or playing music with or just staring at this girl, who suddenly seems pretty interested in whatever you are interested in, as if it’s worth being interested in just because you say it is, or sing it, or whatever. You used to think about me, but now you don’t, except for inviting me over and then forgetting, and I guess that’s ok or good or normal or something, now that there’s another girl in your bedroom. Now you’re playing a song, and she’s listening. I realize that I’m not able to laugh or vomit. What I can do, however, is walk over and shut the open door to your bedroom. And so I do.