I Called Her

     Sarah made grunting noises as we passed the deli, I asked her why, yet she didn't answer me. It’s almost as if we’re tense every time we walk downtown. 

     Something always seems to happen at this spot, where the stairs of an old apartment somehow aren't vandalized. Sarah loved to stare at the shrubs that grow out of the cracks in the stone. She said, “Jamie, look how beautiful.” I didn’t know what she meant exactly, but I played along.

     Something new, Sarah tells me to go down the stairs that lead to some basement well, which is technically still outside, just dark. She stares at me in the dim summer sparkle of the moon. Almost a gleam, a trance, like an albatross glossing over the water in the Atlantic. 

     A syncope of our hearts matches the taste of a favorite childhood cereal. Could it be that I'd finally finish the dance? 

     I call Sarah my love because it’s true. 

     The tango in the night is not a tango, but a pattern, my pattern. Too much for me to bear without. 

     I’m not scared any longer, the illusion is over.

     Sarah cries with excitement, and I lay down as she leaves the basement.

     Perhaps I call her again soon?



17 years old

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