do you want me to flush?

"Oh!, sorry," I back away from the plywooded-plaque/paste-boarded-green mountain clapboarded- capital bathroom doorway, "I didn't know anyone was in here."
"It's okay, come on in," she beckons me as she zips and smiles.
Why the fuck would a stranger ask me in the bathroom with her? "That's ok I can wait."
"Do you want me to flush?"
"Um, there's no need, I guess, saves water," I say like a true Vermonter who runs her car on vegetable oil and bathes in the river when it isn't too cold.
"Ok, then," she glides past me in the doorway, brushing against me a little too purposely.
"Did you want to wash your hands?"
"No, saves water," she smiles my words back into my mouth.

---

"Are you ok?" She messengers me from the back of the room.
"Yes, I just had a weird encounter at the bathroom," I reply, feeling a bit silly IMing her from ten feet away. "Well, maybe it wasn't that weird, considering where we live."
"What happened?"
"I'll tell you about it later. I have to finish this cover letter."
"Don't take the job if you don't want it. I want you to be able to work on your writing."
"I'm not writing anyway, and we're broke. Plus wouldn't you rather hear my voice announcing the Vermont Public Radio sponsors and your time and weather?"
She sends me a smile, broadcasting my regrets across the room. I smile my words across the web before they choke the source in my mouth.

---

She moment agoes me from the front of the stage, "do you want me,?" she question marks my home with a look.

I am in a capital position. The Vermonter/New Englander/Englander's frontal lobe/mountainer's index/image of what I think the left index/pinky/index, and a right index/left middle, finger looks
like when she punches the letters for 'v' 'a' 'g' 'u' 'e'

I don't know/if I miss her or if I am a vague word that broadcasts itself over my world wide mouth.

I don't know anything.

"Are you a student or something?" she questions after I remove my earphones and ask her to repeat the question.
"Oh, no, um, I am working on a cover letter, well, I was working on a cover letter but I can't really think of anything good to say about myself so I gave up. Now I'm just writing."
"Oh, what are you writing?"
"I have a blog."
"Really? Where?"
"Two places. Blogspot and MySpace."
"You have a MySpace account?"
Doesn't everyone, I think but say, "Yes, here it is, I show her my screen."
"Nice, well, I will let you get back to your writing. I just saw you sitting here alone and thought I would approach you."
"Do you see the person sitting in that booth?" I point to the dressed in black, glassed in the back.
"Yeah."
"That's my girlfriend of two years."
"Oh, sorry."
"It's ok, how would you know? I'm flattered but--"
"Wait, why are you sitting at two different tables?"
"It's a long story."
"Oh, well, I will let you get back to your blog. I see that the bathroom is free."
"Don't forget to flush."
"Huh?"
"Long story," I say as she nods and smiles her way across the room.

---

"My pathetic life is one long story," I begin but quickly delete. I begin again.
"do you mind if i'm in an octobered-bathroomed, front-porched forum? a deliberate listener sinister?" I delete. I don't know where to begin.

And so I begin again. I repeat. I plagiarize, "i'll probably feel better if i stay at home and play with myself." I delete the entire damn thing. I don't smile.

---

"Why did you take down that blog?" I smile for the first time in years.
"It sucked."
"Repost it, or I'm never speaking to you again," she empty-threats me from another dream.
I find its remnants from another space.
I repost and broadcast love as an empty trace.