Mexico

I send him a text message that says “IT PUTS THE LOTION ON.”

That's what I was what I said to him in bed when we he called me a Cougar and I told him I preferred the term Pedo.

He wanted to talk about music that morning, something like dub step or double step, something vapid and grotesque and with a heavy bassline. His words were ruining the cinema in my head, so I gave him water with a little juice in it to shut him up, like you would do with a toddler. I even gave it to him out of a sippy-cup. I stroked his so-soft baby hair while I waited for him to become eager and frisky puppy-like again. It didn't take long.

But when he’d worn me out he didn’t offer to get me any water or any water with juice in it, and as I lay in bed while he whistled in my bathroom, I thought: The Architect would have offered me water.

The Architect would have brought me water and he’d have brought me to Mexico. He would have had sex with me maybe once a day in an entirely obligatory fashion while we were there, and he would have felt compelled to call room service to change the sheets immediately afterword, but he would have brought me to Mexico.

The little one, I call him My Tiny, doesn’t respond to my “IT PUTS THE LOTION ON” text, and it doesn’t really bother me much. He’s playing me, which is mildly adorable and very amusing, but it doesn't pay my airfare. I think about playing with the Architect's money in Mexico. At Blackjack. Do they let you gamble in Mexico? Do they let you put a chip on security and maybe two on happiness?