Moons and Junes and Ferris wheels, the dizzy dancing way you feel.
Do you remember when we agreed to meet for lunch on the sunny side of the street? But then I found you sitting on a green bench in the shade. I ordered a sandwich with chicken and bacon and avocado, but couldn’t fit it in my mouth without laughing. You said that you would draw a picture of my battle with the toasted monster when you got home. I don’t know if you ever did. We crossed the road and each ordered a second cup of coffee in take-away cups. A latte and a double-shot latte. I had to help you count out the change and the barista smiled and said you were lucky I was there. We walked to the cinema. I don’t recall who held the door open or who paid for the tickets. We sat low in our seats and tried to identify the six or seven translations on the side of the packaging for the 3D glasses. It was decided that the only one with exclamation marks was German. When the film was over we stayed until the credits were almost finished, listening. Can You Feel the Love Tonight by Elton John. I could feel your eyes on my face and my cheeks were warm. Instead of looking up, I attempted to compact the rubbish we had accumulated into my cardboard coffee cup. I showed it to you triumphantly when the seats were empty but for us. I am sure you must have seen the fear. We stood. If only you had accepted my offer for a lift home instead of hugging me away. Though I admit, that was quite nice too.
Do you remember when we hadn’t agreed to meet, and I made a fool of myself? I had poured a bottle of ten dollar Chilean red wine down my throat in the preceding hours. It was the first time I wasn’t sad about being with those two people. I had decided that they would no longer be a source of bother, and that was enough. When the taxi’s two left wheels rolled over the concrete gutter I did not know that you were inside. I saw you soon after the glass paned door swung in its frame. In my mind we were both very drunk, though I now don’t think that can be true. This is probably why most drunk people seem so obnoxious. They assume without question that all others are in the same state of intoxication as them. On that night at least, it was my assumption. We held one another and swayed slowly. Our fingers interlaced and I felt as though I was in a film, graceful and lovely, smiling into your shoulder and inhaling. I am sure I must have looked to all others anything but graceful and lovely. You supported me to a table outside as we complimented one another’s writing to those we passed. A mutual friend accompanied us, with whom I spouted praise for Paul McCartney’s Maybe I’m Amazed. I touched your hand under the table. When they told me to leave, we walked back through the swinging door. After you had left I sent you an inane message. You didn’t reply. It was your older brother’s birthday the following morning, you had said.
Do you remember when we couldn’t decide what to have for dinner? We walked up one side of the main street and down the other. The sky was yellow. You spoke about your favorite Batman comic and quoted John Keats. When we stopped on the curb to wait for the traffic lights to change I considered telling you without any real conviction. You chose a noodle shop but ordered rice. We talked about the colour of the walls and forgot to ask for plastic cutlery. The supermarket obliged with a packet of knives and forks painted in cheap silver. You bought a bottle of triangular juice. We sat in a silent square beneath a bridge and had stilted conversation. You told me repeatedly of how heavy pool tables are and I lamented my sunburned nose, running with hay fever. There were not enough clean tissues in my bag. Neither of us could finish our meals so I drove you home. We tried to hug across the handbrake but your head made rather forceful contact with the rearview mirror. I held your temple in my hand and apologised. I sent you another inane message when I returned home. You replied.
And then I ruined everything by writing a letter with a black pen on lined paper.
