You're on a stoop and I'm across the street.

I'm staring at the back of your head and your hair parts at your shoulders like waves crashing against the bow of a boat's rotting planks. He touches your face below your eyes and kisses

your cheek where I used to kiss your cheek. 

It's cold out. He wraps the collar of his jacket around your head like a vampire and I sit in my white hatchback praying to God he really is a vampire. It would certainly make sitting on a side street in below-freezing weather more exciting.

You probably bought a dog. I bet there's a yappy maltese named Harriet chewing the frayed ends of a checkered throw pillow on your love seat, waiting for a pat on the head and a bowl of water. Hopefully you don't dress it. I heard dogs and cats don't like it when their feet don't touch the ground.

He's leaving now. I shouldn't have worn these gloves. The fingers are cut off, I bought them this way. Every thirty seconds I have to cup my right hand, cover it with my left, and blow for a few seconds. My jacket is zipped up to my chin, the tan corduroy jacket with the collar that buttons. It doesn't match my pajama pants or this Toronto Blue Jays hat. 

I actually came by for a reason. The last time we talked, you kept staring at your feet and said it'd be best that we didn't go to each other's place of employment. You said I can't double-task at work. Typing memos and eye-to-eye contact and chasing coffee just doesn't work. I respect that. 

See, I wanted to ask you about wearing clothing we bought each other. I had sex yesterday. Tess stripped me down to my boxers, the ones you bought me from Banana Republic... they have the camel on the crotch. This sounds stupid, but I saw your face staring up at me in that camel's eyes.  The same face you made when you brought them home.

~~~

It was a Thursday. I was making a bagel when you came in and threw a pair of boxers that almost landed in the tub of margarine. 

I hate camels. They look too stoic.

I thought they'd look cute on you. Wash them and wear them tomorrow, please.

I shoved the knife into the container and spread a generous layer of melting yellow across the bagel. The coffee pot started to hiss.

They aren't going to match what I'm wearing to work.

You dug a clenched fist into the stovetop. 

But those things don't matter.

Then why do you color coordinate your bras and panties with what you wear to work?

That was the last thing you said to me that night. I went into the living room and watched a baseball game until I fell asleep curled next to the Afghan we got as an anniversary gift from the landlord.

~~~

I just wanted to know how you felt about wearing the clothes. The other things you gave me are folded up and stuffed into outlet mall bag under the stairs. I only wore the boxers because my washing machine broke, and I didn't have enough quarters to go to the laundry mat. Wearing "those" clothes might be some unwritten rule, I don't know. This is all new to me.