Sunday, September 20, 2015

no regrets

We never returned to the small cantina where we met, where you drank tequila shots and I drank highballs. It was spring and the rain came down in torrents. You ordered small plates to foster our thirst, and you ate the ones which were too foreign for me while I kept to the raw tomatoes. The bar was full and the other queer patrons shoved against me and I made a brash joke about jumping onto your lap. Sitting there, handsome and lanky in worn clothes one size to big. You made a sort of come hither motion and the bartender laughed. She was sweet, that bartender, and talked a lot and wore dark purple lipstick. I do not recall her name.
We never returned to the sea west of the city. Where I confided I’d lost my mind. I forgot about it right away because being with you was enough. It was summer and it wasn’t quite warm enough to swim yet. We took photos of just our feet in the water instead. Yours and mine were the same size. Our hands were also the same size. We figured that out that day, too. Perhaps that’s why they fit together so well. I glanced through those old pictures yesterday. I got to one of you and me reclining on the sand and said, “Oh, what could have been.” I remember what you said the night before that picture was taken. And I hate myself for fucking us up. A week after we got back from that beach you stopped holding my hand.
I want to go back there and drown.  


JR said...

Sounds bitter sweet.

LMB said...

It was.