A Unicorn in Suffolk

I'd been working on the tip of Long Island;
a project with an alleged friend
whom I should have let struggle alone.
The ride was four hours of aptly named parkways.
A midway point was sought and found.
She liked sci-fi and fellatio.
I shared some of her interests.
We were two lonely souls
looking for love on the Internet
wondering why wheels were spinning.

Her place was a renovated suburban basement--
polar opposite of my third-floor Main Street apartment.
My transparency about the circumstances
appealed to her jaded sense of romance.
We both knew it was doomed
and filled those voids regardless
making Hannibal Lecter jokes
while waiting for 'X-Files' to end
so we could kill the lamp without shame
as soon as her glasses were placed on the nightstand.
I'd drive the remainder the next morning
and show up in Montauk refreshed
ready to build what awaited me.
Three or four times, always no snoring.
Three or four times, never a note.

A few months ago I looked her up
to see if she'd found a better arrangement.
She had, and I was happy.
Her fiance moved her to Portland
where they'd manage through the rain
for decades to come, sans cellar.
Graciously forgiven for dialing unfairly
I deleted her number and poured one.
Now, as she'd rather
I couldn't tell you her name
with steel between my teeth.
The wrenches still don't pull themselves.
I doubt they ever will.

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