Mariana

Without judgment or fear, I look on her as the hordes of memories invade my wall. I let the good overtake the bad. I decide it's fine that, if only for an afternoon, I focus on the sex and picnics rather than the front seat quarrels and meanings lost in translation. Is that the same green softball shirt she had back in high school? How much gloss am I coating here?

In situations like this I can't tell what's real and what's not. We laugh, we joke, we lightly touch and our feet are close. Coffee turns to walking turns to drinks turns to dinner and drinks and a moonlit stroll. Familiar, friendly, edited. What's wrong with that?

The stroll is long, there is a lot of alcohol to be burned out of our veins. I get her to her car. She asks me where she's driving. I say how should I know. I know what she means. I know where. I know. I let the silence fill the space between us like the Mariana Trench, too deep to know what's there or when to stop. And it only ends when she kisses my cheek and drives off into the depths of the highway, all flickering lights and broken curfews.

I walk home. I live a mile from town. I could make this journey with my eyes closed.