“She gets drunk and sends me poems.”
“I guess she likes you.”
“No, no, nothing like that.”
“I don’t know, she might just respect me as a writer. I always give her feedback, like I would to anyone who sends me their work. She never responds back.”
“You don’t even have a phone.”
“It’s all on Facebook. I wake up and see that she’s messaged me at four in the morning. It’s happened a few times.”
“Are they any good?”
“Yeah, not bad…”
“How do you know she’s drunk when she writes them?”
“Just a guess,” I said and continued, “I picture her drunk out of her mind, writing a poem and sending it to me, then not remembering the next day when she reads my feedback. I imagine her regretting it. That’s why our conversations on Facebook don’t go much further.”
“What a crazy bitch,” he whispered, as he chugged the rest of his beer and let out a burp.
“As crazy as the rest of us…I’m thinking, if she sends me another late night drunken poem, I’ll confront her about it.”
“What’re you gonna say?”
“Not sure, but at least I’ll ask her what she was drinking, and if it’s a quality poem, I’ll encourage her to keep drinking. She probably won’t respond back, but I’ll tell her, ‘Listen Sara, no need to be embarrassed. There’s a poet inside you; alcohol is her door, her path…Cheers to your poet!'”
We laughed and ordered another round. “You should turn the tables on her.”
“How do you mean?”
“Write her a drunken poem to put an end to the nonsense. Confront her with poetry.”
“That’s terrific! Let’s write it now,” I exclaimed, reaching excitedly into my back pocket and pulling out my notepad. “Are you down?”
“Sure; I guess we’re drunk enough. Let’s do a shot first.”
We ordered shots and I casually slid my notepad toward him. “Start it off; we’ll go line for line.”
“Okay,” he chuckled, exhaling the tail end of his cigarette and putting it out. He wrote: “They say, long ago chivalry died, but crazy bitches are very much alive…” Jon slid the notepad back to me just as the waitress brought us our shots . “So fucking sexy,” he muttered under his breath. I read his line over and over, spinning my pen between my fingers.
I wrote: “We all love to love…Him, her, you and you; we all pretend like it matters who…”
“This is stupid,” he said.
“As stupid as the rest of us. Just write something, anything; you never know.”
He lit another smoke, he wrote: “So fucking sexy! I’m so wet, the waitress is so fucking sexy!” And then he threw back his head and let loose a laugh that silenced the patio for a moment, as he slid my notepad back to me.
I wrote: “There are poets inside us, and they deserve better whiskey. You’ll rise tomorrow with regret, while your poet is sound asleep.”
Back to Jon; he wrote: “So have a shot when you wake, you crazy bitch!”
“This is retarded,” he said, shaking his head. We laughed and ordered another round, and all jokes aside, I hoped the poet in me would understand.