Just one of your endearing quirks. I felt the chuckle
in his palm brushing against the small of my back.
I blushed, kept the bottle at a fifteen-degree angle
to drip equal volumes of Moscato into each glass.

I typed ankle instead of angle accidentally,
and I thought of some other guy’s poem
about cutting the bottoms out from tube socks
and how his girlfriend thought it was cute
he kept them on in bed but said, In a year
they’ll be the things I despise most.

Maybe in a year, I thought, he too will find my angles
awkward. Ankle-like protrusions jabbing his shins
when we sleep. In a year, we say, as if certain

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