When the buzzer rang I freaked. Ohmygod, he’s really fucking here. It
was so hot you were wearing a tank top and jeans, told me you were in
your moving clothes.
You walked right in and looked at the shit on my walls, said “You’ve
got nice shit on your walls.” And then, “So where’s the carpet?”
I told you I’d go get it, asked you to wait. By the time I’d yanked
the edges out from under the bed, I was a stinking mess, but thought
I’d fling my streaked hair back, tell you, “It’s all yours now.”
Instead I stood there slinking to the side as you practically galloped
past me to grab it. You did check out my tits, I saw you, or maybe it
was a sweat splotch, I’m not sure.
“So how the fuck are you going to get that thing home?”
“Piece of cake! I used to be a mover. Carpets are the easiest. You
just roll ’em and ride ’em up on your shoulder.”
It came loose so you grabbed and rustled it into a tight little
package. I couldn’t help thinking of you doing me the same way.
You said, “Kind of shaggy?” And then began sneezing. I counted eight,
maybe nine big blasts.
By the time you’d gotten through my door your nose was dripping a long
thin string down your tank top. I buzzed the gate. You just rammed the
carpet roll to swing it open. You timed it perfectly.