I don’t mind driving. I can make the trip. It’s no problem. I have my music and the echoes of an audiobook about a repressed lesbian woman from the 1940s. The woman is just discovering what the clit is as I pull into your driveway. Inside, we don’t make small talk. We just do. Your walls are made of cinderblock and the floor is cold and I wonder about that woman, trapped making a rotisserie chicken for her husband while I am allowed to swipe to find pleasure, drive to a location to receive it. My love is not enclosed in secret licks of envelope sleeves and Hayes-coded smiles. I am greedy, taking and taking and the only thing that stands between me and delight is the single stretch of highway that connects me to you. Granted, there will never be many options for either of us. I cannot tell if we like each other or just agree that compromise is adjacent to sexuality. Afterward, you will take me to the 7/11. Artificial cherry will fill my lungs, and all I feel is saccharine.