Do you remember the time you took me with you to your sister’s wedding?
It was in small town somewhere and I was jonesing for a cig but no place was open and not even the bar was holding. I think I opted to spend the service itself in the tub in our weird motel room. Pulled the TV on its cart into the space between the bathroom and the main room and ran a bath.
The tub was new. Only the tub was new.
I ran a bath and watched the X-Files (in my memory I watched the X-Files but when I think about it that really makes no sense because the service was during the day and the X-Files only ran at night but for the purposes of this story and by way of wanting to seem cooler than I am, I watched the X-Files while I bathed in that small town somewhere) while you did the wedding. We would meet up again at the supper.
In fact you fetched me for the supper, rightfully concerned that I’d get lost or wander off or forget or choose to explore small town somewhere instead (starting with the boneyard). I don’t remember the supper.
I remember I wore a heavy lace skirt that didn’t come to my knees. A gauzy see through shirt. Maybe a camisole beneath. Big steel toed boots. All in black. Purple and black eyes, purple lips, white skin. Pale white. Pallid. Death white. Chalk.
There were toasts made.
I danced the schottise with your grandmum. I danced all night with your grandmum. I tried hitting on the DJ because I was jonesing for fags. You laughed. The DJ was…strange. But he had fags.
We fell into our beds tired. Hot. Laughing. The DJ. The dances. The incredulous stares because you’d brought a girl. A weird girl.
I think of you often and don’t call, don’t write. I suck at staying in touch. I loved you then. I love you still. I’m sorry I suck at being in touch. I miss you.