Page 95 - The Bridge Vol 17_pgs

VOLume 17

We talked about everything that night. Our words flowing over the coursing river of our trip. You
cried when I told you about my first conscious thought: staring out the window, waiting for Her, while
anxiety pulled at the edges of my existence. (She never came.)

Another flashback to Her. Hair dripping with moonlight, brushing against my cheek.

“Mommy does crazy things sometimes.”

Si, lo recuerdo.

Entonces…

Our Lamp de Patron painted soft shapes across your face. LSD and molly brought my fingers to
your frayed collar. I wanted you there in the sand. Our shared pain scattered around us, grainy and
saturated with color.

I wanted you. So maybe it wasn’t.

The police drove by on their nightly rounds. Sirens off, lights flashing. Blue lights lingered, became
solid. The beach was closed. How can they close a stretch of sand and water? Your visa was…well…tu
sabes… so we snuck off, two wild kids whirling through the streets, whooping with joy.

The walk home. Swinging arms. Singing. An orange halo over the city. Shimmering concrete. Light
pollution. You stuck a dandelion behind my ear. A thousand points of yellow.

You kissed me on the bridge as the last train screeched beneath us.

I kissed you back. So maybe it wasn’t.

It doesn’t matter. I woke up with your handprints on my chest.

Home. Giggling our way up the broken front steps. Fingers clumsy from uppers. Fumbling for keys.
The front door swollen and creaking with humidity. Abrazos. Bumbling down the dark hallway.

My room. Blue walls shrunk around us. Popcorn ceiling caved in. Mi cama.

“Amorcito, por favor, la luz. It’s too blue in here.”

I couldn’t come down. My pores were so small they weren’t letting anything in. Frantically I picked at
the threads in my comforter. I could feel my pulse in my teeth.
You pressed a cold glass into my hand.

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