"Men's Beds"

"I was promiscuous With my feelings most of all. Under stars, I sprayed saline solution into two wineglasses And took out my contacts. I didn't want summer to end, but it did. Many lives Happened inside those walls, And, for a season, I wore a designer hoodie And got iced americanos every morning. I slept in men's beds: They took turns breaking Me. It felt good, but one's absence Weighed on me like a death."

"I wore a designer hoodie And got iced americanos every morning. I slept in men's beds: They took turns breaking Me. It felt good, but one's absence Weighed on me like a death. Late summer blurred Feelings together With rain. At least I wasn't going to be lonely. I moved around the city, Buying paperbacks, Putting sunscreen on my neck. Who hasn't yearned for a stranger? The trains were free. I mean: No one checked your ticket."

The narrator admits to being promiscuous with feelings and performs small rituals under stars, spraying saline into wineglasses and removing contacts. Summer ends despite resistance. Many lives unfold within shared walls; for a season the narrator wears a designer hoodie and drinks iced americanos each morning. The narrator sleeps in men's beds; partners take turns breaking the narrator, which feels good while absence weighs like death. Late summer blurs feelings with rain. The narrator avoids loneliness by moving around the city, buying paperbacks, applying sunscreen to the neck, and yearning for strangers. Trains run free; no one checks tickets.

Read at The New Yorker