He liked me.
I knew he liked me.
He liked me, and I liked his friend.
I liked his friend and he knew that too.
I knew that he liked me because he stood too close, he touched too much.
At those parties where I went to see his friend
I averted my face, ducked under an arm, swatted a hand.
One night, some night, I don't know when, we were all out walking.
"You like him," he said.
"Yes," I answered.
And then, back at the party, he pulled me onto his lap and held me.
As if we had never had that talk.
Or as if the talk didn't matter at all.
And I wriggled free.
He liked me.
I knew he liked me.
He liked me, and I liked his friend.
I lived alone and he knew that too.
I didn't know that he knew about my bedroom window.
About the lock that didn't work.
Until the night I didn't know who was there.
In the dark, in my bed, when I woke with a start.
When I awoke with hands on my back and breath in my hair.
In the morning when he left, he didn't feel the change.
I know he didn't, because he came by a few nights later.
On his motorbike, like a boyfriend.
I did not open the door. I spoke to him though the crack-
neither inviting him in nor coming outside.
After that he didn't come back.
He liked me, and I liked his friend.
I thought I was safe
at home in my bed.