Sold

He liked the way I drank a martini and the way I cursed and the way I talked about god. He called me a contradiction and he sang to me on the phone when I called him crying one night.  He told me I smelled like Bloomingdales when he kissed my neck.  I wondered what he was shopping for.  He said, “Don’t write about me. Swear.”  I told him I wouldn’t and he told me a secret and I called him mine.  Writers are always selling someone out.  I was the one who would pay the price.