The Astrophysicist.

We are dancing this fine dance, our feet heavy, clumsy, our heels dragging. We laugh, and I drink while you sip your ginger ale and tell me about NASA and being an Astrophysicist. Really, you are very smart and charming but all I am thinking is how I will sleep with an Astrophysicist tonight. We leave the bar and I suggest the park, because you are 17 years sober and I’m starting to feel like you’re getting me drunk just to take advantage of me. Not that I mind all that much, I just want to remember this one in the morning. Or do I—I’m pretending, this is all an act. I wonder if you can see through it, me on the edge of my chair, listening to you babble on about the stars and satellites and that year you spent in the South Pole.
I’m wondering how big your dick is and if I'll still like the way your face looks in the morning.
It’s a clear night and in between making out you get distracted by a flash in the sky. You stand up, leaving me cold on the bench, my head still cocked to one side. “What was that?” You ask, clearly not to me, because now you can see that I don’t care at all about your stories, “I think it was a plane.” I respond anyway, patting the spot you left next to me on the bench. “It most certainly was not.” Your head is still face up to the sky and I’m getting bored with this.
The city is before us and I guess I care more about those buildings then anything that may be exploding in the sky right now. I won’t be the girl who asks you to explain quantum physics or the black hole all night. I’m the girl with my feet on the ground, ankle deep in pigeon shit and garbage and tar and I couldn’t be happier.
“Want to walk me home?” I ask, not caring anymore about fucking an Astrophysicist. I just want my bed, my torn up couch, my messy room. I want to sink there and sleep and dream and wake up alone. You weasel your way into my house—the bathroom; you have to use the bathroom. I give you water and kisses and your dick is huge. You keep talking about my room, how you want to see it, but it’s dirty and I want it all to myself tonight. So I send you home and I’m sure you won’t call, but I don’t care.
I sleep hard and long and in the morning no one is there but my cat, his face two inches from me, wide green eyes staring into mine, he does this, just watches me sleep some mornings, knowing that his stare will eventually wake me. And it always does, and this morning when I see him like that I look around my filthy room, my yellow walls, I wake up laughing and I can’t stop. And I feel better than I have in months.