And there you are.
It’s been 46-seconds, 20-minutes, 17-hours, 3-weeks, and 4-months since you took your love away. You invited me to your family’s posada to celebrate the holidays with you. You want to rekindle.
The Priest ushered us into the den room to lead us in prayer and you took your place next to me.
My salvation. And probably the reason for my salivation.
It’s finally just you and me. Me and you. You and me, your dog, your parents, grandparents, uncles, aunts, and 15 cousins. But it’s us. We’re an us. We’re sitting together. Like we could be together again. Like you could love me again.
You lean in closer, sharing a printed bible passage with me. Your dog is barking wanting to be let out, she’s convinced there's cats in the backyard. You scold her in the same hush tone you used when we first had sex in your house. Your parents came back early and you begged me to stay quiet.
I’d give anything to hear you breathless again.
Your face is flush from embarrassment. You murmur apologies about your dog, and you’re perfect. You look just like you did on our first–not–date. I took you to a botanical garden, a lizard fell in your hair. You screamed so loud that you scared an elderly man next to us. I couldn’t stop laughing. You were livid.
“A little joy to guide us,” the Priest says as he holds a cheap sparkler. He hands one to everyone in the den. There’s a soft golden glow from the sparkers, and everything simply feels right. Being next to you again.
It lasts all but five minutes until the tiny Los Angeles den air thickens with grey smoke and an awful sulfur smell. Everyone here is an idiot, no one thought about opening a window before the Priest started.
I scramble out with your family while you stood by the door holding your dog who thrashed desperately to escape. You held a Mexican standoff with the Priest insisting he go out first, he says ‘no you.’ I do all I can do and yank you outside by your sweater.
You laugh. None of this is funny.
You set your dog down who sprints half-lazily to the fig tree to bark at cats that aren’t there anymore. Your backyard smells like a church, and you look like you could be my religion. I could spend life times suffering for you and it’ll only ever feel right because it is you.
I want to ask you if you still love me even under ordinary moonlight, if you could love me the same, if we could start over from scratch. All I manage to tell you is that “I still love you.”
You look at me, and through me. Like you can’t make me new. Like you can’t do this with me anymore. “The love we shared isn’t worth another try.”
Your dog stopped barking. There are no imaginary cats left to chase.
