She says I make her smile.
I get lost in a daydream and cannot quite get her statement out of my head.
She is difficult, intelligent, avoiding, and the girl next door.
I imagine her, maybe I invent her a little bit as she wishes of progress, aggression, and an easier American dream.
She has tiny lips that haunt me when I cannot sleep.
I am just a writer of the American failure in me.
I think. I drink. I write.
My job becomes my day bleeding into night life barstools.
Conversations have now blended across these fifty states of cosmetic consumer denial in the midnight hours.