I noticed the zipper on the back of Jerry’s neck when I kissed him there a year ago. I politely ignored it as his hands ran up and down my back, tapping “would you like to take me to your bedroom.” I turned out the light to get myself to stop staring at the zipper’s pursed lips.
“I have something to tell you,” Jerry says. He always wears gold arrow cufflinks when he thinks he’s going to say something that hurts. I tip what’s left of the wine glass down my throat before grabbing the loose skin around my waist and begin to pull up.