• Here I am again, sitting in the same smoke filled bar, with the same drunk atmosphere, waiting for you. How long have we played this game of cat and mouse? How long will this pointless need to fulfill a lost dream continue? We "haven't been together" for three years, and yet here I am, waiting for you to show up in the same red dress, with the same gluttonous lust in your eyes. Does he know where you go every Tuesday night, makeup flashing, your perfume trailing the streets of Devon and Western? I bet he does, just as she knows. She just refuses to say anything, because she knows, and that's enough to make me think. Actually, that's the reason I'm thinking right now. Just before I left, she tossed me that look. You know, the look that says "I know where you're going, and this is your last chance." She's the reason I'm thinking about whether he gives you that look; about whether you care when he shoots with that sad glare of contempt. I bet you don't. I bet the only thing you think about as you're walking out that front door is how pitiful he is, and how you know he'll be there when you get back from your "walk". I'm being used too, and I know this fact very well. I'm aware of it as we drive to the shabby hotel on Lincoln Avenue. I'm aware of it as I get drunk enough to drive and not remember the events of tonight. Here it goes. The door the the bar is opening, and I can smell your greed penetrating the cigarette smoke and musk of the other men in the room. I see your red satin dress flowing over your voluptuous physique. Its kind of funny, the way you try so hard to attract others to your obviously unattractive body. Yet, it always works. Your eyes are almost bulging with lustful anticipation, and your hands clench the black purse you always carry. As I look at you, I see it all. I see the scared, childlike mentality you try so desperately to conceal. I see your self- loathing, and your ugly, and I think "I can't do this." You sit down and wait for my words, always cunningly sweet. Only, this time, they are cruel and abrasive. I explain everything. I explain my guilt, my passion, my love, and my dreams. You're surprised that they have nothing to do with you, and you sob. Then you beg. Then you try to bargain. This time, I hold true. You get angry. Then I say the last words you'll ever hear me say to you as I turn to the door: "You are no longer my Twelve O' Clock Tryst."