it is not my fault i remember things, i cannot help it. i cannot stop. the way he played with the hairs just under his nostrils, whiffing at them, as if he was remembering something, like the scent of her. just the glimmer of it, on the edge of haughty and musk. she with her feet propped up across his legs, lotion in his hand, toes splayed back. she said, get busy with my clit and i was astounded. the way his son looks at him as if to say with one fragile eyebrow raised and a shy tilt of his head, i will be more of a man than you. i cannot stop it, it slides in and out of view, like the way i can tell the difference between holding someone and being held, the reluctance and recalcitrance, the wanting and the loss. he says to me, that stupid bitch has filled the house up with everything and i take the cigarette he offers and smoke it viciously, for this too will remain.