Blessed with a wicked backhand.

The steady racket of the Friday morning commuters
shooting and spreading from the barrel
of the Lincoln Tunnel just outside her window
fills her room with familiar noise as we lay naked
after making love, or as close as we would get to it.
We've both become accustomed to sleeping through it--
the noise, I mean-- though I'm not quite as proficient
due to less practice.

"You look good," she says in a surprised tone that insinuates
that the opposite should be expected, that her statement
is a reward for good behavior or congratulations for
making it through an ordeal that would normally
cause one to look less than 'good'. To put it simply
it sounds like she's talking to one of her goddamn
cancer patients after a rigorous course of chemotherapy.
But, of course, she means my physique. I'm down
to this year's rock-bottom summer weight
and the sweating off of pounds has ended for the season.
This is it. This is as good as I'm going to get for now.
I've finally gotten closer to having the swimmer's body
that she wants, but will I ever be the man she needs?
Not the one she says she does-- the one she can't deny.

"Thanks, Babe," I say, looking through the shades
and trying to picture the agitated motorists so as
to be grateful to be in the safety of this room.
"So do you."