Precept #4

Jasmine Williamson

I swiped right on a picture of you and your shiba inu. Over text, we bonded over grime music. I invited you to a poetry reading at a wine bar in my neighborhood. You don’t like poetry. A girl I used to work with at a burrito restaurant read a poem about Beyonce. You looked like you were listening intently and you put your arm around my shoulder, later gently caressing my back. I am a house cat, so that worked for me. We stayed until the end and I was overjoyed listening to poetry with fellow literatis, while being petted. This is my religion. You don’t like crowded public spaces. We exited into the drizzly night and walked over to the only cobblestone street in Northside. I love that steet with its tiny pastel houses in a row like Easter egg teeth. I stood on the curb so I would be more aligned with your skyscraping face. I kissed you and you seemed surprised but you kissed me back, awkwardly embracing my waist. You don’t like kissing in public. I drove us the four blocks to my apartment and we undressed each other while tumbling onto my floor mattress that I was slightly embarrassed about. You said you like a bed low to the floor because that’s how Bhuddist monks sleep. You don’t like to sleep in beds that aren’t your own. I didn’t mention that I really couldn’t afford a bed at the time. I asked about the razor straight scars on your stomach and thighs and you said you were in an accident. You weren’t in an accident. We spent the night together, sweaty and messy. You don’t like to be messy. In the morning you kissed me on the forehead very early and whispered that you were going to run an errand and be back. Who has an errand to run at 7am on a Sunday? You don’t like sleeping late. You returned with a wheel and tire you had bought from a salvage yard. You told me you had noticed the wheel on my car was faulty and needed to be replaced. You were anxious riding in my broken car. I thought this was the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me. I took photos of you replacing the wheel, kneeling in the sun. You secretly believe in prayer.

JASMINE WILLIAMSON lives in Cincinnati, OH with her two children, three cats, two guinea pigs, and a tortoise. She earned her MA in Creative Writing at Northern Kentucky University, where she now works. She is a co-editor for Many Nice Donkeys literary magazine. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Hearth and Coffin, Daily Drunk, Selcouth Station, Sledgehammer Lit, and others. She internets as @mosscollection.