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  • Another night of wild conversations with people I just met. Fragments of them return as I lie naked in bed, contemplating the bruises on my knees like they belong to someone else. They might as well do. I can’t remember how I got them.

    My clothes lie in confusion on the floor, tracing my last few seconds before oblivion. One of my boots has landed on the table where it nestles up to my laptop.

    Still horizontal, I skim through the most recent photos on my phone. Wonderful devices that help you fill in the blanks. Who needs memory?

    There’s the usual riot of faces and poses and mess. Some friends, some people I’ve never seen before. I find a nondescript picture of a metal grille, a security door. For a moment I wonder, and then remember. Pulling that guy down the slope, into the corner, feeling the metal behind me, pulling him towards me.

    We make out sloppy style, and I’m half into it, half wondering what else the night has for me.

    Two things happen at the same time. I notice the sign for the security camera over his shoulder. Start trying to figure out where it is.

    And I feel his hand between our bodies, scurrying around. At first I think he’s trying to get up my shirt, but then I realize his hand is in my jacket pocket.

    What the fuck.

    I push him away, and he kind of staggers back, comically, and his hand’s still attached to me and follows him one beat later.

    -What the fuck are you doing? Are you after my wallet, I shout at him, suddenly furious.

    He looks stunned, but maybe that’s his just his face.

    -No, no. No. I was just seeing if you had any cigarettes. I want to smoke something.

    I don’t know what’s worse. Him trying to steal my money. Or my kisses being so unspectacular that he wants that post-sex smoke before we’ve even got going.

    I lean back against the door, and look up. There’s the camera. Right above us.

    -Look, I laugh at him. You’re busted. Caught on tape.

    And he laughs back. Looks behind me and laughs some more.

    -Couldn’t happen in a better place.

    He points through the grille. It’s a police garage.

    And then it’s alright and we wander off, hand in hand.

    -Next time, I tell him. They’re in my bag. But don’t go thieving around in that.
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