The bartender that I love
just gave some tourists
bad directions
on purpose.

“Just make a left out the door,”
she said,
“and then keep going
until you see water.”

“You meant North,” I say,
the door closing behind them
removing any vestige of natural light.
“A left isn’t going to help them
at all.”

“Whatever,” she shrugs, going back
to watering down her drinks.

I am beginning to believe
that the girl of my dreams
is not a nice person.
I am finding cruelty
in even her smallest motions:
a flick of a wrist
that kills a fly;
a bump of a hip
that unseats an unsuspecting porter.

I suspect
the complexity that makes her compelling
is simply evidence
of her psychopathy.
Isn’t it often so,
that the characteristics of interest
are those of poor character?

Not that it matters.
My love is my love
and I feel for her
no matter how bad a person
she proves to be
but I am becoming increasingly glad
that she cares so little for me.
That should make our eventual schism
so much easier.