I wonder if it happens to you, M.
I wonder what would have happened if you’d have taken that train with me to Montauk.
We were better off getting drunk outside Tompkins square park in the good loving sun of July. Those boots you put on were the Pallisadoes. They should have been your birthright. Boots for feet. Whose were they? You were in flip flops and a short black skirt when I picked you up, and three gin and tonics later you were circling the column in those long brown that covered your sweet best.
You slapped me once. Slap? You wanted something more, but I didn’t understand. No, thats a lie. I understood. You just weren’t going to get it. And then phone call, email, twitter, then one last text, and….next.
Where is this coming from? Where indeed. I forgot a dream the other night and in it was your smile. It was low and reflected in a dirty pool of water on 15th street and Park.
Please tell me you’ve made it? Please tell me it’s better. Or, gets better. Or you don’t care so much anymore. Or, you needn’t ask to be in someone’s power. That the power is yours. That it was always yours. Do you still scrape the carpet with your knees and ask what other people want?
I saw you on that street that time. We talked of nothing and it lasted less than a minute, but the best part about it was we knew who we were and walked straight toward each other. That’s just in you, I guess. I was lucky to have met.
Have a great marriage.