I'm staring at my reflection
in my bedroom's dresser mirror:
my hair too tousled,
my face much muddy.

A ring.

Second ring.

At the third I watch myself draw in heavily,
and sigh tediously at the fourth.

I wish I easily give up,
but I don't.

Fifth,

Hello?

Your voice, the calmness of a lake,
pulled into a vortex of resounding turbulence:
your brother's shrieks and claps, and
the t(h)ypi(o)ca(rita)l cries of the basketball game commentators.

So I've disturbed you.

I witness the way my cheeks flush,
but almost immediately drained.

Hey!
I'm hosting a dinner on the seventh.
You free?

Where?

My place.

What's the occasion?

My nose reddens,
its nostrils flare.

They say:
boys don't remember
about things they couldn't care less.

Apatheia accentuated.

The television's volume

It's my birthday.

is turned higher—

Three points for Estaban!
Sorry, come again?

It's... my birthday.

then quickly lowered.

Your brother says
he's going to relieve himself.

It is?

Yes.

Oh.

My mouth opens, closes;
opens, closes;
open, closes...

Oh.

I glimpse silver shine in my eyes—those
bloodshot eyes, cradled in puffy purple—
sleepless nights.

Thought I've prepared well for this phone-call.
Why isn't it going as I planned?

Sure, I'll drop by.

She'll be there.

I said it too promptly,

The reflection bites her lower lip,
and swallows.

It came out without deliberation.

Excuse me?

Or did it really?

Because I think
I've secured my friend's attendance beforehand:

I made sure our lady friend would come.

Y'know:

—a bait—if you refused to join.
But you haven't,
And why would you?

Stupid plan B slipped out needlessly.

Never mind.

Mutual understanding in the rarest of sense.

You force a chuckle—
a chuckle sharply executed,
reaching through the line and piercing
my amour-propre,

robbing me of the ability to think rationally,
honestly.

My mind is always in a jumble
when it comes to you, anyway.

No, really, Trish; I'd drop by.

Overwhelmed by the resentment in your tone
tears finally fall—the fullness of my folly
weighs down in my chest:

Trish?

My mouth opens, closes;

Bye, now.

opens, closes;
opens, closes...

Oh.

I'll see you on the seventh.

Thanks.

I want to say thanks.

I want to thank you—
for being polite in the least at the least
though I'm quite of the female creep;

but before I say it,
I encounter a brief silence,
soon the tune of the summoned cradle button
(the sound of the dead pulse of my unpleasant pleadings)

—you've hung up.