She Left A Dirty Napkin On The Floor of My Minivan scrunched up in the fabric of an old, torn sleeping bag, remnants of a fast food picnic. earlier, standing across from each other, me outside her window, I looked at her, the self that she called her self, her eyes looking back at mine, feeling naked, her cheeks tensed in a forever pre-smile, a quicksand of knowing and silence between us, her hair freshly cut and pulled back, a little messy, a little bohemian, the romantic version of poverty, it’s fun and it’s cute until it’s not, it was nice to see her that way, it was like a little secret that the bigwigs never get to see. standing there, our happiness and our loneliness being fed by precisely the same thing, “you’re so pretty,” she said. “stop,” I said. the two of us, always ready for the next crush to come along, taking a precious respite there, raindrops plicking on the metal roof, and, well, I loved her then, as I had felt before, but fallen out of since. I was thinking of a time when she asked me to remove her boots after coming home from work.