Anticipation

I follow a woman across the Brooklyn Bridge on a bike-share, rooting for the wind to lift her coat.

Biking is the only way I can get anywhere without real pain. In a week they replace the first knee.

P doesn’t text back, and I’ve discovered that I can’t do this. No hard feelings – just sad.

Two knee replacements coming, and I can barely walk fifty yards to the bike share without crying.

Biking through lower Manhattan, surrounded by beautiful women, wanting all of it and knowing better.

I’ve only got four pictures of you, and your sweaters tell me everything I need to know.

I should have gone there first. By the time the bar called my name, it was too late.

I asked, you answered, and I didn’t love the answer. I’m a toddler: if you’re masturbating, I want you thinking about me.

I’m getting two new knees in my 50s, and I’m terrified.

P emailed again, and my heart leapt again – like it always does, like an idiot.