Hit me, baby, one more time.

I might have to burn this bra. It shouldn't have been the last straw, but it was.

Last night I couldn't get laid to save my life. I called my five regular guys, answered two ads on craigslist, and nothing. I was agitated. I was horny. I was alone.

Finally, I gave up and went to Safeway. A pint of Ben & Jerry's, a bottle of cheap wine, and cat toys. Doesn't get much more lonely single woman than that. The cashier said "I'm supposed to ask you if you're 21." I said, "I look it, don't I?" She chuckled and said "If I look it, you look it." She was at least ten years older than me.

I drank my wine, ate my ice cream, and watched TV until I could sleep.

This morning I was fine. Slept late, made Dessert Burgers with the kid, played with the cats, everything's fine.

No sign of any boy distraction, so I go over to Shane's. We watch a movie, get high, everything's fine. My chances are slim, but in the back of my mind there's a roaring desperation I don't even see, and I try anyway, lifting up my shirt to show him my pretty new bra.

"It looks like a Grandma bra," he says, but hey, you kinda look like a Grandma." My first thought is for my bra, pink and lacy and pin-tucked. My second is I'm thirty-fucking-five, you asshole, and I'm crying.

I lie in bed and I cry. He lies next to me and I cry. He pats the cat, "My Cosmo." He pats me, "my Jane." I know he doesn't mean it, never will.

"I'm not yours. Choking, wiping snot on my shirt, "You don't deserve me."

"I didn't know I had you." Stupidest fucking thing I've ever heard.

"You've always had me." I cry and cry and cry.

Eventually it comes to a shuddering halt. I grope my way out of bed and pull on my jeans, and head to the garage for a cigarette. Someone on the Art Bell show is talking about using expensive and exotic machinery to map the magnetic resonance of known UFO sites. I stare at the old printer box, with the idealized portrait of three All-American brothers. The younger two look like they could turn into bullies. The oldest, like you might have him for a night, but never more.

O smoke and I think about Shane. I thought he had already hurt me as much as he ever could, but I was wrong. I will leave him, I decide. One last night, holding him as tight as I can, loving him, forgiving him, then walk away for as long as it takes.

I go back to bed. He's up, on the computer. I lie in bed and wait. I think about what he could do to win me back, to make it better. It wouldn't take much. Put your arm around my waist, pull me close, and sigh. That's all it would take.

I wait.

I can't believe how long it's taking. If he cared at all, surely he'd be here. I hear the creaking of the chair, the bubbling of the bong, the long exhale. I know these sounds like my own heartbeat. Surely something will happen soon. I've been waiting so long.

I wait.

My nose is stuffed from crying. My mouth is dry. I can't sleep. I'm too nervous. I can't stand the suspense. I want to leave, but I feel paralyzed.

I can't stand it any more. I get up and go to the kitchen for water. I'm standing at the sink, drinking, when he comes up behind me and says, "Oh, hello." As if nothing had ever been wrong.

"What does that mean?" I say, trying not to let my voice quaver.

"I just thought you were in bed." I set down the glass, and soon I am.

I lie in bed. I wait. He comes in. I forget what we say. It isn't enough. He doesn't care.

He falls asleep, snoring lightly. Tears roll noiselessly out of my eyes. I get up, look at the bus schedule. I just missed the last one. I can't get home.

I go back to bed. I don't know what to do. I didn't think he could hurt me this much again. "Go to sleep," he says.

"I can't."

"Read," he says. I can't understand him. He repeats himself, exasperated.

"I can't," I say. I wait. Finally I say "You're not even going to give me a ride home, are you?" I can't stand it. I hate myself. I want to be home and cry for days.

"Why the fuck should I do that?" He's highly aggrieved. "It's the middle of the night. You live all the way across town. you came to spend the night, so spend the damn night."

I gather my strength. I get up, put on jeans and shoes and the now-hateful bra. I pack my books, steal a notebook. That which does not kill us gives us more shit to write about.

I walk. I get to the bus stop and smoke a cigarette. The bus won't come for another four hours. I walk.

Woodstock to Foster. Foster to Holgate. I want to lie down in the graveyard, soak the graves with my tears, but I'm not that far gone or that goth. I think about a cab, but I don't want to spend the money. I'll walk to the Tik-Tok, drink coffee 'till 5. I notice the cars going by, think about throwing myself in front of one. The thought shocks me. I'm not that bad. I want to live, more than I used to, even though I'm hurt real bad.

Holgate to Powell. It seems so long. I think I see the Tik-Tok, a mirage, then finally real. I sit in the bus shelter outside and smoke a cigarette. Leaving, I surprise a hooker. Or at least she looks like one. I am obscurely pleased that there are still hookers on 82nd.

I go inside. Coffee, water, and a shot of cheap whiskey. I drink. I write. Journey's "Don't Stop Believin'" comes on the radio and the tears roll out of my eyes. Fucking Journey, man. Gets me every time.

More coffee. Little cups of creamer. I down another shot of whiskey just after last call. Fucking Tri-Met, stops running before the bars close.

I drink. I write. I wait.

I go out back for a cigarette. starting to feel the booze now. I talk to a black stripper named Raven, and her new guy, Mike. She offers me a ride home, assures me she doesn't bite. Maybe, I say. Maybe.

Somehow I'll be ok.

I go back to my table. I drink coffee and read bout drugs I'm too scared to try. Raven and Mike leave without me, I'm not sure when. Probably better that way. My bus will start running in an hour and a half. I read. I wait.

It's five in the morning. I'm tired. I'm drunk. My heart is broken. I'm going home to sleep. To live through this.