We agreed that it would be Thursdays,
and it became Thursdays.

Those nights, though she went elsewhere, I’d leave the house
and sit in a friend’s living room

on the west side of the city, drinking slowly
through the long evening. I’d like to say I drank

to distract myself, though in truth
agreeing to how things were

had made me more at ease: I knew
what I knew. I grew a kind of confidence. I took my time

in the bathroom mirror to adjust my hat.
Thursday nights, when the liquor was finished,

I’d ride the bus back home across the river,
knowing she would not be there.

Each week the same tired driver, each week I’d slump
into the same blue seat, each week the same views,

though they consoled me: the city through the window,
black and gold. The lit rooms going dark. Her and someone

with her, closing her eyes.