Fragments 

A lingering scent of last night’s cigarette smoke in my truck reminds me of you.

In college on a Saturday driving on empty winter streets in a summer tourist town. Smoking and talking, you stuffed another butt into the overflowing ashtray.

Oh, one more will fit, you said.

On another day and on another road I knew you were leaving.

You were talking about a friend of a friend and how she colored her hair.

How she hated her stick legs.

How she didn’t eat for a week, you said, because she was mad at you.

A trail of your cigarette smoke slipped out my bedroom window. A cottage on a dirt road near the water. Waves splashing on a frozen beach in February when you said, Let’s see other people.

Did you like her bottle-dyed hair and her stick legs and her bullshit? Because you traded me for them.

I was the last to leave our little rental. I remember coffee in the kitchen with you — chipped Formica, green curtains, and not enough milk.

I remember running out of heating oil in December and washing your long hair. I warmed water on the stove and carried it upstairs. You were naked in a blue tile bathtub.

You left me for a girl with purple hair.