We were, the seven of us, sat in chairs, feet up on the patio table, while young fireflies flittered around the pine trees.
We were, the four of us, sat on a blanket, while the antique, electric fan rattled and kept the mosquitoes away. It was hot and the Absinthe was long warm, but black Absinthe (its first, startling, aniseed bite: so tasty) was designed for Greek evenings and rivuletted beautifully through our misshapen ice cubes and coiled delicious at the bottom of our pint glasses.
We were, the three of us, cuddled on the couch. We listened, mouths open, breath held, for the next thunder clap. We smiled and clapped and forced laughs that turned real with each boom.
We were, the two of us, stuffed in a booth the night before
. . . look. This isn't exciting, it is wish fulfillment. You don't have to read it, you probably shouldn't.
I want to remember moments where we held hands and stared quietly into a roaring fire while sheets of rain thrashed against the windows. I want to remember the
I am writing this so I can remember the curve of her hips in those brown pinstripe pants we found at a thrift store in Charleston and no, it doesn't matter which one. We got funny looks and poor service. She wore a white a frame shirt and a cream colored bra that made many things defy physics that evening, and she grinned with her thin, wide lips and her verdant eyes shone like polished lake stones.
We laughed, incredulous, at the dry triangle of t-shirt under her boobs, the first time she wore that bra and we got caught in the rain. "How is that?" She asked, holding the shirt up.
"Your boobs." I said, "They are literally comic book big."
She shook her head. "That's ridiculous." She said, "They're ridiculous." And she sighed, heavily, goose fleshed and August tanned.
I am writing about the past because I am trying to come to the present.
I am writing while I wait. I am waiting. I have a friend, I am her ride to the hospital when she goes into labor. Well. I might be her ride to the hospital. I might go out dancing tonight, later, depending on how she feels. She has slept most of the day, and been prone, half dazed, when awake.
I wanted to write a "simple" heroics story. A clever set of events that a group of friends or acquaintances experienced together. Instead I'm pretending I'm single.
I'm not. My friend is my wife and the fact that she's my friend isn't a lie, but it isn't the truth, either, because people always expect you to tell them the biggest most interesting and life changing part of a story first, as if it were their business that I'm married to my best friend.
As if they have a right to know who I actually love.
I love my best friend, and she is asleep, or about to be, on the couch. And I am here, writing. Putting words down, trying to express the present, so I'm not stuck looking into the past, no matter how far that may be.
Do you know the song "STUNNER" ? it came out in October of 2013. The singer-song writer is a very tall, very old man. He is in his forties. He wears black clothes, t-shirts with his name in huge block letters, white on black.
Maybe if I have a sip of vodka my daughter will kick off this