I can’t sleep with you because you have an incompatible phone charger

after Chen Chen

I can’t sleep with you because I don’t have my hairbrush and sharing a brush is different to sharing pillows.

I can’t sleep with you because getting to work in the morning would require a re-calculation of public transport routes. I’m no good at maths. Or time. 

I can’t sleep with you because Chen Chen is my emergency contact. He doesn’t know me but I use his name and some randomised digits when I have to nominate a carer on a form. If someone calls to report my emergency, he won’t answer.

I can’t sleep with you — I mean — I can’t go out with you. 

I can’t go out with you — I might sleep with you.

I can’t go out with you because of the menu choices. I’m not on a diet, I’m just not sure where to place myself between the pickled octopus and spiced lamb.

I can’t go out with you because there’s an emergency prowling by the fenceline, waiting for me to put on my lipstick and lace my boots. I can’t — my mascara’s already running. 

I can’t go out with you because of the astrological charts. I’m all retrograde and staring at the moon. I want to sleep with you. 

I can’t sleep with you because I wouldn’t know when to leave. I’d find a corner in your closet to hide and  I’d only appear to claim the best pillows as my own. 

I can’t go out with you. Someone might call Chen Chen if I don’t come home.