i had a million witty things to say to you, you in your suit, from the press balcony where they perched me, and your slicked hair and quick eyes would flirt over my face and then my breasts and then dance away as if we'd already been introduced, your gaze as familiar as gropes and i wanted your breath and your concepts in my mouth, i wanted to put your genius in unwise places, i was drawn to your brain as most women are drawn to hardened flesh, i wanted to consume you as a book, a blistering blush on my cheek, the novel idea of shoving all of your literary and philosophical genius deep inside of me until my hymen broke, and i was embarassed to be thinking all of these things, but they were rising up out of me as you sat across from me at lunches and held open all of these doors to small manhattan cafes and i was smitten with your words, the way you would debate everything you could and i imagined that if i let you linger any longer one of us would catch on fire from the heat in my bones when you said "call me at my office" with a smile and both hands wrapped around mine, before i turned to walk away, back to boston and you took a plane to chicago, back to your wife and your children.

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