I sit on the toilet and for no reason whatsoever my mind wanders off to the most beautiful of places – the shape of your lips. Damn, those lips, which got me into this mess in the first place. I can recall the very moment you threw that mischievous smile at me which formed itself underneath that patchy, pitiful excuse of a mustache, and it still knocks me off my feet. I feel the pressure in my bladder from the need to pee, but I am too distracted by the thought of how your lips got a dark red hue to them after you’d kissed me hard. Uuuuf. Sometimes I wouldn’t kiss you back just to watch your lips so close to my face.
I hear a creak, and the door to the neighboring house opens. Who is up at this time? It’s the neighbor’s house/dog sitter, and in a scruffy voice he says, “Go on, boy.” I look up at the window and realize I didn’t pull down the shade. Shit. The man stands on the side porch, which is very close to our bathroom window, whistling loudly. The dog’s collar jingles around the yard. If I stand up now, he’ll see me. But I really have to go. I wonder if he can see my curls so I duck.
I watched your lips as you spewed out lies in your car outside my house. I watched them for truthfulness; I watched them for lies. You called me beautiful and told me you cared and that I had it all wrong, babygirl. You knew how to work those lips – I was fooled yet again.
“One day, old boy, ooooone day,” he says to the dog. Is this dude drunk? Even if he can’t see me, if I pee he will certainly hear me. I sit on the toilet, elbow on my knee and chin in my palm, a dull pain in my abdomen. This is some wack shit, but I laugh at the stupidity of it all.
I choose to not be fooled by your smile any longer, so I don’t see you anymore, but here I am, thinking about them again. Damn you and those lips, which have me sitting on this here toilet at 4:30 in the morning, embarrassed to pee in my own home.