whiskey breath without whiskey

he, my counselor,
tried to be subtle
about the whole thing, said
I should go to the bedroom
with a book, maybe two
and some cigarettes.
if figured for sure he was just
trying to hit on me, get me in bed.
so I said, “no thanks. but nice try.”
then he insisted. he wasn’t being
pushy, merely standing his ground;
he had plans I wasn’t aware of.
then I figured it out, gathered my things,
took a look at my bedside
for maybe something else,
which there wasn’t,
and went into the bedroom.
there was the dog
curled up on the bed,
with the whites of his bloodshot eyes
showing.
I closed the door
and heard my counselor
turn up the stereo’s
volume (that weird and random
internet station, these quasi-
porno rhythm beats)
and I sat down on a chair,
put my feet up
on the bed, started reading.

I read about ten or fifteen pages,
set the book down,
opened to where I stopped,
and lit a cigarette.
smoking, shortly thereafter,
I heard the stunted, choked whimpers
of the dog’s dreaming,
then my counselor’s jerking moans of
orgasm, as the wind passed
around the house, through the trees
outside: this perfect chorus
of exhalation.

and now, the last letter of this stanza falling,
here’s mine.