Tuesday

Tuesday's a sink full of dishes, a quiet man with blue eyes on the bus, the homeless woman on the corner doing what's left of a tango.

In the cafe, I see I'm falling for people in the customer service industry again.

I miss the nape of your neck. A place to snuffle. Unspoken vowel of your back pressed against my front. You're the type of boy I eat my wheaties for.

There's this barista on Hastings Street who brings me glasses of water even when I don't ask for them. A close shorn boy with nimble hands and a thirst for tall glasses. Carpenter jeans that never saw a saw. Evidence that he cuts his own hair, from boredom more than thrift. He has your scent. But he doesn't know it.