In Extenso

– August 2024 –

Now with rouge in the sun, your lips a shade darker.

I told you how I dare not kiss them but placed a hand upon your cheek — for now, nervous, this had to be enough.

With the linguine steaming in the heat-scarred pot; you tamp it down with my roommate’s wooden spoon, remind me to add oil and salt.

You had done this before with your father. You would do it again after now. Your green goddess pasta, rotini, too much pesto, and baked chickpeas as good as you knew they’d be.

I saw you once after I disappeared. We barely said hello — walking opposite directions down our shared street, your phone pressed to your ear.

Yet on that sidewalk the hydrangeas bloomed in soil symphony, the smooth tan tree held you in its breast with your legs in too-big jeans hanging down, the blue buds opened themselves to you even though you did not ask.

How women who live in the sun make me timid.

— I am too frightened to join them.