Won the lottery already, whispered to Boyfriend’s earlobe. His self-deprecating laughter loiters in our one-room apartment air as I press into his spine, more carefully than usual. Left behind, leftover Chinese food from my sisters sustains us another day. We won’t quit our jobs just yet. We won’t flee the country, sailing smooth, safe from problems both leering and looming. We won’t be contacted by every person who knows us, suddenly friends-with-benefits to the world. Tomorrow will wear a repeat outfit, same sass as yesterday, same persevering spirit. Tomorrow will thank me later, muttered as he massages me. Who needs the guise of security when I have the best of guys? Can’t say I’m surprised; always been good at getting lucky. I pour myself wine, hold the whine, and drink to all my Tomorrows; I’d rather be broke than rich and broken. I’d rather be a loser with him than winner of anything.
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