He gets under my skin, sometimes.
These days, that’s most of the time.
He’s so far under my skin I don’t know anymore where he
Or where I end.
“I’m going home,” I tell him.
He says, “Great! I’ll order pizza.”
He watches me. Like he’s afraid if he takes his eyes off me
I’ll get kidnapped again, shot up with heroin…
“Your place or mine?” he asks. I want to shake him. Sure,
it was fun once. But that doesn’t mean every date now has to end with him and his girl on my couch. Or in my bed.
I tell him there’s a concept called personal space. As in, get
off my back and perhaps I won’t have to hurt you. But by the expression in his eyes, I already have. Might as well have
pulled my Magnum on him.
He gives me my space. For all of half an hour, maybe, and then he’s
back, sitting on my desk, drinking my coffee, stealing my food. And God help me, I’m grateful.
Because, dammit, I missed him.
He’s got me hooked.
I keep telling them, “I’m Hutch, he’s Starsky.”
But even I’m not so sure anymore.