she understood all along   along the backsides of her legs, her thighs (her cellulite creassses)
that he didn't, never had, and
always would.
that was just the way it (happened) (all throughout history.                   she was boring in bed,
wanted nothing more to play with

had no need for toys
or
instruments
other than the ones he                             pummeled her width. for a second time (and that was it.

the city squarely belongs to him (and his) Judy in her fanciful dress.            in her beautiful/ she's so beautiful tipsy/ sleepstate, asking him

questions that never
needed answering (or coddling).  before him                                  the phone rings. she nearly rings his


lips with lipstick, her tongue in his ear(s) (and)
teases him
                      (about a treasure map)
about other men and if                       she only knew the half of it               she


wouldn't even mind walking the paces off his old plank: straight into the depths of his:             
     Judy is startling                     and secure like      that

nothing to be messed
with   or baited-and-switched  and given up                     for flogging and mauling with

strange  girls

hiding under the bed                                     or even out back with the   lunchtime staff
(he never slept in)                 with her

never even
thought that    maybe he should.     Judy yes, of course--dozens of hundreds of defeats that he
longed to give (into)her and did) with the full length of his awkward-outward    guts       and  soft, smooth   somethings    exciting

she was like that. he liked that. he couldn't deny it. but he did it daily--denying it
just for shits and  giggles--that's how

the
other
girl            types and types                             and typecasts       him      in a way


that sometimes makes a mess of sense.
He hates that about her. he hates her face.                    and her hair.       and   the way    her
lips    pull  him in...              drowning him again...   for the first    of many          misunderstandings    a

pitfall of
the medium                   girl--mediocrity (in a crucible cape)                 ho-hummm, and

only maybe concealing
something

worth   finding out                    he

knows it's all     bluff ( and jagged cliffs  even if
it is

love;     it's the kind that doesn't                   bear repeating                to Judy

or even
to Evelyn

the one
who's
driven     him

to

a          whole      other

realm   of distraction (exhaustion)  extinction                just with her tits    alone
he's

(hoping to find himself)           alone with them           her face devoid of meaning        or    anything even vaguely
resembling      Judy (or Amelia)      or Emily        or Olivia            he


should think it through, shank it through      moments ofwaekness
andawkwardkiss
his
and
                      Amelia's loose    buttons    (always)    
coming off in the most inconvenient
   (awnings)--still attached by threads or fishnest    filaments    into
his   tangled
and

gaping
openings

there i sno clear       exit      or waepon     to      account    for

she
must tell
(him)
this
       (and other stories)

it's beyond

her     and

beyond
her  (half-hearted)
     reach

a fistful
of
forget-me-nots

to
laugh
and  sing along