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Someone called my name yesterday

and I thought it was you.

It wasn’t, of course.

It was an old classmate

who I’d barely known

but felt obliged to stay and chat.

I asked about his career.

He’s a real estate agent

or a secretary

or something.

He wasn’t interested in what I do,

not that I really do anything.

I should fuck him,

I thought.

I should fuck the

menial

mid-level

employee right out of him.

But I looked at his left hand during a loll

and saw a golden ring.

He chuckled when he noticed my stare

and told me about Janet.

His wife of just three weeks,

his fresh Caribbean tan.

My hatred for him began boiling

as I wondered why

Janet hadn’t been brought up earlier.

And the more he rambled

about his too-personal life

the closer it got

to bubbling over.

Janet, he said,

doesn’t wear her ring.

Janet, thinks they’re old-fashioned

Janet, thinks they’re a sign of possession.

Janet is probably out fucking someone.

And maybe she’s fucking you.

Her hands digging

into the moles on your back.

Yours pressed

to her tanlines,

guiding her.

Someone called my name yesterday
and I wish it were you