J and I make our own coffee, I use the guatemalan cause I take it with milk, he does the ethiopian or kenyan, I can’t remember. We take our ceramic mugs and walk around our neighborhood, our living room, in the dying sunshine, the last try at summer. We kick leaves and talk about wanting to be alone and wanting to be in love. J stares at his phone every once in a while and in the corner of my eyes I see it, but I never ask him. She still refuses to make plans. We hover around an apartment I know about but never pass it by. I pose for an hour in the record shop, J is looking for idk, while I slowly recollect myself. I flip through and look at the covers. I can’t do vinyls. I used to, way back, with someone, and I did it for all the wrong reasons. I still can’t find the right ones.
On my way home to the east coast we passed through a storm blowing over the mideast and the baby on row 23 was crying. I let Drake comfort me, as my body was tumbling down, losing gravity and clouds squeezed us from all sides. When it suddenly got calm there was a solemn looking sunrise ahead of us, orange and pink breaking through the heavy carpet of clouds and it took me a while to realize it was home. It was New York waiting, it was my red earth of Tara. My heart bursted with love and I tipped the cab driver a ridiculous amount, as if I was surprised. But I was. His radio played Eternal Flame and he noted the receipt “Brooklen” as we finished our business on the street where I’ve lived for longer than any other in the city. It was almost 4 years ago. I jumped out of the cab, he shouted “bella notte!” from the rolled down window and from the rooftop I saw the motorcyclists gather. I open the door to my room and everything is where I left it.
Whenever I talk to C, I’ve always been dumped in some degree. Usually by one of the earth signs. We don’t talk about it more than that, none of us talk about seeing or not seeing someone anymore. There’s not much to talk about in the endless parade of meeting someone, sleeping with someone and leaving someone. We all know the same things by now. While drinking wine together things are promising, when saying goodbye a thousand promises and plans are already broken. I walked up and down his flights of stairs and every time my insides felt a little more sore, a little less comforted. And maybe I wasn’t really dumped. Maybe it was 50/50.
J stares at his phone as we’re not having beers tonight. He looks good and I tell him to buy peonies. He won’t. It seems my taste is too cliché, instead a bouquet of dutch iris is waiting in the kitchen when I wake up. A blue beer cap is curled up next to it. I make coffee but fall back asleep before I drink it. Storms from the west are still tormenting my body. This time he cut the stems diagonally.