Old Blocks
It rained and rained that night we drank whiskey filled with ice. The sweat from the glasses ran down to the table, pooling around the edges. Pulling us to the edges of conversation.
We spoke of the girls from the neighborhood. The ones we’d loved forever and ever all those years ago. The ones we would walk home after getting off the bus, chatting to ourselves, hoping they wouldn’t catch us staring at their skin. Staring at the skirts that got higher with every passing summer and the t-shirts that got lower with every black line that the mercury crossed.
You said, “The first day we met she cried on my arm, and held my hand so tight I thought it might fall off. She never did touch me the same again. Not after that. But every time I look in her eyes, that scared little girl is always always always staring right back.” The whiskey slurred your words together.
“Why was she crying?”
You shrugged. “I don’t know. Something happened at home with her dad. I can’t remember now. Fuck.” The whiskey from your cup evaporated.
Those glasses went dry and the power went out. We lit candles to cut through the dripping night. It kept raining so we filled our cups again. This time to the brim.
