Was.

I remember you sent me a text, saying that your knees were sore from the shower. I told you I was a writer, but never what sort. I don’t think you ever thought of a journalist, or buddy journalist, as a writer and you made me recite one of ‘my’ poems. I chose a Poe and you bought it. We slept together twice more that night before I left for work.

When I arrived at the café I drank a smoothie and asked my boss some questions about my penis. I’d never slept with a girl before, much less three times without a condom, and it was starting to resemble a purple-dye mushroom. By the time I got home I’d forgotten your name. I think it was Christie. You lived in an apartment near the Yarra, and you still don’t know I was a virgin.