I got your message, yeah, and I’m cold dead shards floating over the world. Nothing is real, nothing has any impact without the warmth and the weight of your arms around me, on the nights you’d decided I’d earned it. I need that comparison, between you and the rest of it, or else the meaning drops away and I start to lose sensation, in my arms, my legs, the pit of my stomach. I don’t like it when you’re angry. I know that it’s passed before, that I just need to go away when you tell me and come back when I am allowed, and then everything will be okay, but I’m lonely in between and I don't like it.

   The first time I saw you, it was at work. Do you remember that? You came in during my second shift and sat at a table in the corner, your jacket your only companion. I was scared to go over and take your order, because you had something weary and furious in your eyes, something I recognized from looking in the dingy bathroom mirror after a long day of harassment, just because I’d decided to wear tight jeans that day. But when I approached you with a menu shivering in my hands, you’d looked up, and smiled, and I’d realized that your eyes were weary, sure, but kind and sad and brown. You’d ended up asking me when my shift ended, telling me I was real cute, taking me out to a nicer dive than the one that I worked at. It was hot and crowded, and other people were staring at me, forcing you to drape your arm over my hips in a gesture of protection. Possession. Whichever. I was still a little scared of you, but by the end of the night I was safe at home touching my bruised lips, with a slip of paper with your name and number on it tucked neatly inside of my pocket.

There’s a difference between how you treat the rest of the world and how you treat me. I mean, there used to be. A comparison. It just gets hard to tell because I get spoiled, take too much for granted. You can’t always be on time, your train’s bound to be late occasionally. It’s unfair to demand your warmth next to me every night. You have a life outside of me, your young, scared lover. I understand your sleepless nights, the twilight philosophy panics and coffee orgies. I had them as a teen-ager. Well, I’m still  a teen-ager. I had them in high school, countless hours of studying and worries. I was never good enough, no matter how hard I tried. You don't have to write five-paragraph essays about the economic impact of the shopping mall, but you feel the same, I can see it. I wish I could visit you in the kitchen—it’s not ours yet, you remind me—and smooth out the frown in your forehead, but sometimes you like to be left alone. You’d call if you needed me.

   I took the late shift the other night, and my phone died before I could call you. Is that why I’m sitting out on the curb now? I feel so guilty. You must have worried. You told me once that you always kept an eye out for bad people when you walked down the street with me. Because you didn't want anyone to take me away. The punishment of solitude is justified, when I think about it. My careless actions could have cost you me, so now I lose you. But just for a little while. Just until you call me, till you’re not so angry.

   When I was a kid I used to sit up on the roof of my apartment building. The moon was always huge whenever I was sad. I can’t see the moon from the gutter, but I know she’s there, my second mother. I used to talk to her, can you imagine? I don’t need to anymore, though. I have you. When you're not angry we have such wonderful conversations. We both have a side, and usually I’m wrong. What does love mean? What do we mean? I love to hear you talk about those things. You’re really smart. Smarter than anyone at your job or house or childhood home gives you credit for. I wish I could talk back to you. I’m not very smart. Whenever I think I have a point I get tangled in my words.

   All the age gap stuff is just stupid taboo, isn't it? I’m legal anyway. I mean, I know the people in your office make disapproving faces when they see me in your car, but does it matter what they think? Someday you’ll get that promotion, and they’ll all have to listen to you. Then you can dress me up and bring me to office parties, and no one will look too hard at the kiss-shaped bruises on my neck. You dream of a world where you are in charge, and the questions asked are what is mankind’s purpose?, not how old is your little friend there?

   Is it what I’ve been eating lately? I’m sorry, I know I promised to get thinner. It’s just, when you're not around, ice cream is a pretty good substitute. But you like it when my hipbones stick out, and you try really hard to come to bed before I fall asleep. I should really do better. I’m sorry. From now on I’ll skip breakfast. Wait, I skip breakfast already. Maybe I’ll count calories.

   Sometimes you tell me stories about your work, and I get so angry. How can Hopkins and Deborah treat you like that? You have really good ideas. They just never give you a chance. I bet you’re beating yourself up over it right now, without me there to comfort you. But that’s my own fault. I’ll think about that next time. I tell you stories about work and all you want to know is did that scumbag hit on me again, did that asshole cop give me trouble. They’re really not so bad, but it’s sweet that you get jealous. It means you care about me.

   Why don’t you like to look at me when we fuck? You like to call me ugly names as you come, a stream of vicious whispers in my ear. They used to call me those names in grade school. They used to call me those names at home. It hurts to hear you use those names, but I know you don’t mean it. You usually apologize afterwards, and when you don’t, that’s okay, because I know you still love me, and you're happy with me for being good and quiet. I mean, I hardly ever cry, it was really just that one time. It doesn’t hurt that bad. I know you don’t like it when I complain—nobody likes a whiner, you say. It’s like a test, really. It’s because I love you.

   It’s getting really dark out, and I don’t like the way those men are looking at me. You have taught me to be afraid. The city is not your playpen, you dumb kid, you say affectionally, tousling my hair. Don’t take any candy from strangers. The streetlights should go on pretty soon. It’s cold—not that cold, but there’s a breeze. I could go into that bar, but what if you come back out to get me? I had better stay here, sitting on the curb like a five-year old. Those men are probably laughing at me. I bet I look ridiculous, but it’s part of my punishment. It’s my own fault, really, I should be more considerate, I should think more and talk less and ask before I take the night shift.

   When you first started seeing me, you used to come to my work most days, during second shift. Remember that? You stopped sitting at the corner table and started sitting at the bar. Every day you’d ask for bourbon, or a coffee, and prop your elbows on the counter, and tell me how cute I was. Ask me where did I live, how old was I, would I like to go out again sometime. Now it’s different, but that’s because I get to live in an apartment with you. I can make you coffee at home. Not my home yet, you remind me. First I have to prove myself (you grip my hair tighter and moan), prove that I’m well behaved enough to stay. It’s been a long time since I came to live with you, but some tests take a while, and I’ve screwed up more times than I care to admit. It breaks my heart to make you unhappy. I feel like I’m at the bottom of a well. When you look up from the bottom of a well, you’re meant to see stars no matter what time of day it is. I only see the disappointment in your eyes. I once had my heart broken by a boy with green eyes. But your eyes are angry, sure, but kind and sad and brown.

   It’s getting colder and darker and those men are crossing the street towards me, but I still remember how angry you were last time I came back before you called me. It didn’t take you long to decide that I needed another punishment, and you were right. You don’t understand, though—I don’t really mind it when you hit me, because at least you’re still touching me. What’s worse is when you don’t touch me at all, stare past me, act like I don’t exist. Sometimes my punishments aren't blows or sex or solitude, they're just hours and days and weeks of you gazing mildly at the wall beyond me, as I scream and cry and beg you to notice me, hurt me, anything. Just acting as if I’m invisible. I start to wonder if I really am.