Budapest was thick with snow
my suede Chelsea boots
ruined with it
the spa in the City Park
crouched beneath grey sky
its Neo-Baroque stylings
its domes, cartouches
piled with inches of murky
slush
refrozen, desolate
we watched oafish men of
whom
we were two, women in one
piece swimsuits
later roamed the city by
tram
drank dark beer in bar rooms
lost at foosball to hustling
youths
in stonewash denim
shot digestifs of Unicum
chain smoked in the hostel
kitchen
my friend attempting to
seduce
the girl he had met on an
earlier trip
stained teeth, plainly
indifferent
while I feigned manners to
another
jeans so tight her eyes
bulged
she reminded me of someone
else
some former fantasy
and I took her email address
but
never used it, kept it in my
wallet like an arsenal of
deterrence
only imagined her body on
me like a garment
and when I woke the last
morning
my friend – who always insisted
he needed bespoke plus sized
rubbers
but in truth was simply
ham-fisted – was in
tiny red briefs on the bunk
below
his torso scarred from
burning
trying to push himself
against
and maybe into her great
wall
of silence.
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