It was well beyond last call while Marie squealed, drunk and excited, at another girl about boy bands in the half-dark of the bar; the only lights left were the ones from outside, halogen white shining in through the plate window and turning the pair screeching at each other about the Backstreet Boys into a missing Escher print, a lost frame from an Arbus contact sheet. You and I were by the door, tired and waiting, your head tipped back below the unlit Molson Canadian sign, and without any warning you reached out and tucked me under your arm, held me there.
Somewhere in the space between the end of Henry and the beginning of now, I’d somehow lost this: easy familiarity, casual flirtation. Being comfortable. You radiated warmth and I turned into it, tried to breathe, suddenly ticking through all the small kindnesses I didn’t even know I was collecting – stupid texts and terrible shots, nicknames and dumb jokes and everything layering one on top of the other like the sediment in rock, fortified enamel.
“Hey, goose,” you said, simple as anything, and I closed my eyes.
Continue reading “you said you wanted a love letter (but i don’t think you meant this)”
Rach (Out Loud) 