she turned around, leaned her hip into the counter. crossed her arms. looked at me.

and i swallowed. because i loved her, but it wasnt enough. she read that from my eyes. her jaw muscles tensed and relaxed.

with my feet gaining weight each step i took i clodded over to her. looked her straight in the eyes the entire way. she deserved that.

she deserved more than that.

when i got within less than a foot of her i stopped. i could smell that perfume. the one that reminded me of rain and summer and her late at night.

she slapped me. i saw it coming. didn't duck, didnt try to stop her. i looked down at her shoes. old fashioned men wing tips. she grabbed my chin.

the area around my eyes tightened. my rib cage shrunk. she guided my head up. i saw her chin. shaped irregularly. two slight bumps. i had kissed that chin on her porch in twilight before. still raising. those lips, never with lip stick. sometimes they tasted of burts beeswax lip balm. that nose, with a freckle or two i had played connect the dot with. those eyes.

those eyes that knew me better than everyone but one other.

"you were never a bastard. don't ever think that. i know you think of her."

told myself i wouldnt cry. forced myself not to. swallowed. her hand went around to tangle itself in my hair and pull me into a hug.

i wished, then, for the first and only time, that i had curly black hair like she had always wanted. laying together she would tell me how she never knew why she liked my hair. straight and blonde. she told me sometimes, after waking up, it reminded her of straw.

i put my arms around her waist. picked her up and brought her into me. feeling the way she fit just so against me.

"i love you, you know." i whispered. i felt her nod against my neck. heard her mutter "i never doubted that." set her back down. took a step away.

her hands locked themselves around my neck. her eyes searched my face and i watched them move. she nodded a little. dropped her hands.

i moved back in. kissed her lips. chaste. like a twisted romeo asking for his sin back. moved away. she pushed my shoulder, turned me away. i left.

later, much later, i read a poem. it was one i had written her. one that she had laughed at. it was cockneyed and fumbling and young.

i read it again. in front of audience. one that she sat in.

"she doesn't have cheeks like apples / or lips like two red cherries. / nothing of her face reminds me of fruit. / i look at her, late at night / and am reminded of lord byron / ee cummings, shakespeare, neruda. / how they must have each known her, / to have been able to see / how she walks in beauty / how she can close and open me / how i want to see her laid out / unbroken by necklaces or bracelets / in front of me. / i pull her closer / and remember."

i wrote that and left it for her, on her car windshield. tucked under a wiper. she called me up hours later, laughing. "ahh, my silly silly crayon."

and that night. the only other time i had read it aloud, after the time, in her bedroom, she made me read it to her. made me say the lines that never said what i wanted to say. i read it, again. she walked up to me, after the readings.

"crayon."

and i nodded. hugged her. held her for a moment too long. when i pulled back she wiped her eyes and i apologized. she grinned.