When We Were Friends

Maybe, she says. Whatever, I say. Knowing it’s 50/50, I still put out the cheese. Just when I stop hoping, her knock. I swing the door toward myself. Familiar chorus of squeaky locks, warped jambs. She stands on my Welcome. The porch bulb is too energy-efficient to show how easy she is to love. Hat ready to fall and be lost ‘til morning. A smile like a Nevada highway. “Pick your poison.” A bottle and a joint aloft. “Both.” I stand aside so she’ll come through, put her bare feet up on my kitchen table tonight. She’ll bring a tirade about her work. She’ll step on my cat. She won’t replace the toilet paper when it runs out. She’ll spill red on white and I will get the rag. She’ll eat the last piece of pie without sharing. She’ll get me to dance with her even though I don’t like the song. She’ll insult me and pretend she doesn’t notice. Tomorrow the muscles of my face will hurt from tonight's laughter while I clean up the mess.