I am lying in bed with my boots on, having just called my therapist. You call. Announce we are going to dinner, that you will be here in half an hour. Then I am in your arms. And in the Blue Moon Cafe', where I eat, finally, ravenous. You rub my back and isten to me repeat her name, say stricken things that make no sense. I am cold on the way back to your car, and, in a heart beat, you wrap your leather coat around me. When, at my insistence, we stop at 7'11 to buy cigarettes, you interview the clerk as to which brand would be the least harmful. We smoke in your car. You do a Popeye the Sailor Man impression, then suck your cigarette halfway up your mouth. Suddenly, I am laughing in a way that hurts my chest. "I'm a shot pigeon," I mutter, flicking away the ash. "Shot pigeon?" Your expression with your cigarette makes me laugh again. How similar laughing is to crying, the same exhalations of breath. Now, you are trying to stub out the last embers of your cigarette on your rearview mirror. It won't go out. A rush of why I love you. You, more girl in a boy than I've ever known.
About Me
- Naomi S
- A few things I know for sure. That revolving doors make me nervous. That, sometimes, it takes courage to do the simplest things. That the moment in a theatre before the stage lights come on is exquisite. That poetry is often "one short step to the good ground (May Swenson)." That I love swimming anywhere but especially in swimming pools.
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