The Last Page

“I might get lucky tonight,”
you said. “So don’t page me.”
“Is that something you want
to tell your Mom?” I asked,
referring to the getting lucky.

When you came in at 5:30 a.m.,
you said you just fell asleep over there.
“Happened before.
Might happen again, and
you shouldn’t have paged me.”

I asked if you cared whether or not
I got any sleep.
You said you could take care of yourself.
“Fine,” I said.
“Go out on your own,
and don’t page me.”

We call each other from time to time,
but we never ever page.