I used to think i could lure you back with cocktails and fine linen sheets. I feel a masculine need to show you my ability to provide safety in the form of consumer goods, but i express this in a classically feminine way.

It works. Because you call me when you're short on rent. I bring you the money I made from grinding on the laps of the white anglo saxon men we both hate so much. Men unlike our fathers. Yours the heroin addict, mine the rapist. Money with a warmth from my body that seems to linger. I see their children sometimes on the city bus, going home from school as i head to work. Chunky necklaces, barely touching thighs. I feel jealousy and sex and raw appreciation them. Mouths filled with braces. You make me drinks, cocktails too warm and sweet.

Would the money i give you mean more if i had to pawn my camera to pay your rent? Would it mean that i loved you more?

In the meantime, i stock the liquor cabinet, buy new cocktail shakers. I wait for you call me, drunk in the night, so you can come see my new ikea dish set.

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