These are not stories.

It’s the little things in life. Washing your hands with Method soap after you’ve been out and about in the city all night. She pouts about you not using her natural artisanal soap, but you kiss her and tell her you’re not her demographic. Your hands need the strong shit, the chemicals that will burn off the toxins of the night.

You helped her up when she fell walking up the steps and her hands landed in a puddle of spit. She wiped it on your jacket and accused you of pushing her down. You defended yourself and she pushed you against a graffiti-covered wall, pressing her face against yours. It was quieter there in the station than on the train where you were making out in the hobo seat while some guy at the other end of the car was screaming about the coming of the lord one second and fast asleep the next, only to snore himself awake and repeat the charade.

Between kisses, you watched unsuspecting tourists board the train, being startled out of their boots, not sure if it would be impolite or racist if they moved away from the screaming-sleeping man. All eyes were on them and what move they would make. They didn’t want to make the wrong impression on their first visit to the Big Apple. You laughed at their hesitation and thanked god you weren’t that naive anymore.

Only twenty minutes before, you were naive enough to believe people are honest. You went out with friends and friends of friends and you ended up paying for the whole group. You didn’t speak up because you thought it would be rude. You would rather they take advantage and still like you than to worry if you’ll ever have people to go out with again. It happens every time. She tells you to not be such a puss and you tell her she’ll never understand. She can hang with the boys because she likes all the things you’re supposed to like. It gives you anxiety and makes you question what went wrong in your childhood. It’s the modern age and they tell you not to worry about that stuff anymore, it’s all macho patriarchal bullshit. But you come from a different time and find comfort in your ignorance. You find comfort in being uncomfortable. But it all stings you when people take advantage. Hypocrites, the whole lot of them. They tell you to act one way and then act another way and see no fault in that. They order their pretzel-bun burgers and dark and stormys and Mississippi mud pies and laugh and cheer at the game and say “it’s all good” when you ask them for a little help.

She sees the frustration on your face and knows there’s not much she can do for you under these circumstances, so she runs her fingers through the back of your head cause it’s the only thing that soothes you. You close your eyes and smile and pay the check and all is good.

You excuse yourself and go to the washroom. It’s not a competition so you always take your time. The guy who was in there before you pissed all over the seat and didn’t bother wiping. Why would he give a shit who was coming in next? But you don’t want to be mistaken for the asshole pissing all over the seat. Your aim is perfect. You take your time. When you’re done, you wipe that other guy’s piss off the toilet seat and flush all of it down. You’re considerate like that. The water from the faucet is scalding but it feels good on your icy hands. There’s actually soap in the dispenser at this place. It’s nice to know some other people care the same way you do. You rub the soap on your hands and take your time holding them under the water. It feels good to wash away all the grime and worries. Ignore the drunks outside jiggling the door handle. They can wait another minute.

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