The ceiling was beige That's what I remember

The ceiling was beige. That's what I remember.

Not their face, though they were there.

Not the moment. Not the reason.

Just the ceiling, and how I counted the corners.

Their face was turned away,

which was fine. Better, maybe.

The clock on the wall said

it was almost midnight.

Ordinariness everywhere—

the ordinary bed, the ordinary dark,

the ordinary sound of someone

who didn't care if I was there.

I didn't care either.

That was the thing. The realness

of not caring, the hollow

at the center of it all.

After, they rolled over.

I stared at the ceiling.

Nothing had changed.

Nothing would change.

It was sex the way eating alone is eating—

necessary, then over, then forgotten.

I went home and didn't think about it.

I still don't, mostly.

Except sometimes I remember

the beige ceiling,

and how nothing about it

meant anything at all.