Hookups

12:11 am. I slide into the cool quiet of the backseat and gaze at the vaguely familiar route, now crunchy with snow. 'it’s off Diversey,' I say with a beer-thick tongue and feigned informality, like I’m trying to convince this Uber driver that someone meaningful awaits me, where my clothes hang inside the wardrobe and I’ll be greeted with a sleepy hug that feels like home. before the fantasy can weigh too heavily on my mind, I set it adrift, ferried away from my consciousness by the numbing comfort of intoxication. the driver slides to a stop next to a row of frozen cars buried six feet from the curb.

inside he wears a thin t-shirt and smells warmly of whiskey coke and a bummed cigarette. the radiator rattles as we whisper to the back bedroom, careful not to wake the housemates I’ll never meet. our greeting collapses into a clumsy, impatient kiss. earlier I spent seven minutes drafting a single text, but now I was curled beneath the scratch of his beard, and it all seemed so simple.

the comforting smell of fabric softener on his pillowcase is so familiar I feel as if I’ve stolen it. our bodies wrap against one another without words as my boots drip slush onto the wooden floor. above us, strung lights illuminate patches of his hair and he breathes my name with such ease, I readily get lost.

we lie awake, sipping cool water from stained coffee mugs. I notice crumpled papers on his nightstand: ticket stubs, receipts, a photobooth strip — artifacts from another life lived. I wonder if anyone knows I'm here, or if a temporary lover can even be called a friend.

after a brief sleep, sunlight pours through the window like sand rushing to the bottom of the glass, the last grains of our intimacy vanishing. last night’s jeans are cold and stiff, and when I make my way to the door I remember how to navigate the sticky lock just so. before I step into the chill of hallway we exchange a cautious kiss, and for one last moment we still belong together, here,

in the dusk of the morning.