"Heartbreak Hotel" by Leah Mueller
He bought me a bag of
“Love Me Tender” dog food,
stood in the middle
of the grocery aisle
and imitated Elvis, but poorly.
3:00 AM mini-mart after
bar time: both of us knew
I was going back to his apartment
after he paid the cashier.
I should have stayed home
with the puppy, but I chose to
get drunk with a man
who left me cold as a
Chicago winter. I was that lonely.
We bought more beer and
headed back to his place,
drank and listened to the stereo
until I had to lie down
on his king-sized bed
to stop the room from spinning.
He climbed under the covers,
tried to kiss me, tenderly,
yet I was having none of it.
His hands moved relentlessly
down the sides of my neck
towards my half-exposed breasts,
but I stopped him abruptly
and burst into noisy tears.
“I’m sorry,” he said,
“I really like you.”
“It wouldn’t be right for me
to fuck you,” I sobbed.
“I don’t have any
feelings for you whatsoever.”
I lost consciousness, while
he hovered above me
on the enormous mattress,
staring down at my face
with a tragic expression.
The following morning,
he looked devastated, so I
promised to call after I had
a couple of days to think.
At least he was smart enough
not to believe me.
I grabbed the dog food
and wandered into the warm
April morning. His street
was alive with tulips of
every imaginable color. I
saw tulips in shades I’d
never noticed before: pale blue and
pumpkin orange and brilliant yellow.
The perfect light
overwhelmed me with pain,
as I thought how beautiful
everything would look if only
I’d spent the night
with somebody I loved.