I wanted to be the poor kind of rich with you. Saturdays spent at the laundromat wearing mismatched clothes, my shirt swallowing you up almost entirely. Leaning back on a brittle yellow seat you’d tell me about that worn paperback I hadn’t read, the one you read it back in school. Tucking knees into your chest you’d fold up into my sweatshirt and keep warm against the air conditioning still belching chill into new autumn air. We’d dole out quarters like royalty, busting a new roll on the edge of a sorting table. One coin lost under a humming, thumping, purring dryer. We’d spend our first Halloween together in an efficiency, hanging gossamer spiderweb in the window. The kids wouldn’t be well dressed like we used to see, their costumes would be cheap and ill fitting, a young mother coaxing them forward as she drags a cigarette. Once our visitors tapered off we’d have a drink watching a movie picked after long deliberation, halfway through the spirits and an electric bill on the table would dim the lights.