The stories swirled throughout certain circles,

some inevitably seeping out into the lunchroom.


Bathrooms, since our parents' day, were where

smokers' faces snickered in gray swells,

haunting them like custodial spirits.


The stall doors since removed by wizened

administrators- now conjuring a tiled horse's

stable- one enters jokingly, or

desperately,


or coupled. Brian knew the hall monitor from

Sunday school, and only had to smile

while walking by with Kelly. This is what

he tells me, but since far more amplified,


far more glossy stories laced the hallways,

I believe it.
It just got so hot, he told me. I know

I'll be saved by a woman.


His father an abandoned drunk, he watched
Good Fellas repeatedly to acquire a model

of respect and of family, and blamed everyone's

negativity on "penis envy."

It just got so hot, I didn't give a fuck who's

in there. She went down...And I

looked and saw her fucking engagement-

ring on her hand wrapped around...


Last I saw Brian we went to a diner his ex-girlfriend

waitressed at. She wasn't there, so we ordered coffee

after coffee, Brian pulling each drag with a practiced,

distant glare. After my fifth cup I headed to the bathroom,


and when I return he's talking to the 16 year-old

hostess, whose boyfriend is slouching at the counter with

nothing but the nothing of his own stories.