Expiration Date
Elya Braden
What I’ll remember are his naked, white feet shoved
into shiny black wingtips treading the stained floral carpet
between bed and bathroom in that last-minute daylight hotel.
I’ll remember his penis slick with my thick blood. What’s that saying:
I’ll dip my pen in the well, but not drink of the ink? Something like that.
I’ll remember he hated beets. Something about the texture.
Diet coke for breakfast. But was it raining in the parking lot outside
the Barnes & Noble that Sunday afternoon in December when
I was supposed to be shopping with a friend? Did he ask:
“When will I see you again?” My back bent into the curve
of my spring apple-green VW Bug, church bells chiming in the distance,
my head tipped backwards like a peony too heavy for its stem,
his large hand clutching my tangle of curls, the air misted
with exhaust and after-notes of roasted coffee, a single pine needle
stuck to the window. Did I taste the Darjeeling on his breath?
I remember him pulling away. I remember that sucking sensation
like he’d wrenched my heart out through my mouth. I remember
my chest as hollow as if he’d carried my heart away with him, clamped
under his arm like a lumpy, bloody football, still pumping, lively
as a chicken with its head chopped off. Do any of us know when
to quit? How we just keep going on past the expiration date
of jobs, marriages, school yards, telephone poles, hope. I didn’t know
it would be our last kiss. I didn’t know until the next day when
my neighbor said, “I saw your green VW at the mall yesterday.”
Her arched eyebrow implying that wasn’t all she’d seen.
I didn’t know I was supposed to remember the rain.
Originally published in Serving House Journal.
Elya Braden
What I’ll remember are his naked, white feet shoved
into shiny black wingtips treading the stained floral carpet
between bed and bathroom in that last-minute daylight hotel.
I’ll remember his penis slick with my thick blood. What’s that saying:
I’ll dip my pen in the well, but not drink of the ink? Something like that.
I’ll remember he hated beets. Something about the texture.
Diet coke for breakfast. But was it raining in the parking lot outside
the Barnes & Noble that Sunday afternoon in December when
I was supposed to be shopping with a friend? Did he ask:
“When will I see you again?” My back bent into the curve
of my spring apple-green VW Bug, church bells chiming in the distance,
my head tipped backwards like a peony too heavy for its stem,
his large hand clutching my tangle of curls, the air misted
with exhaust and after-notes of roasted coffee, a single pine needle
stuck to the window. Did I taste the Darjeeling on his breath?
I remember him pulling away. I remember that sucking sensation
like he’d wrenched my heart out through my mouth. I remember
my chest as hollow as if he’d carried my heart away with him, clamped
under his arm like a lumpy, bloody football, still pumping, lively
as a chicken with its head chopped off. Do any of us know when
to quit? How we just keep going on past the expiration date
of jobs, marriages, school yards, telephone poles, hope. I didn’t know
it would be our last kiss. I didn’t know until the next day when
my neighbor said, “I saw your green VW at the mall yesterday.”
Her arched eyebrow implying that wasn’t all she’d seen.
I didn’t know I was supposed to remember the rain.
Originally published in Serving House Journal.
