My Friend in Summer

In the summer, my friend wears no shirt, and no shoes. The length of his muscled torso leads your gaze along his full height, and reminds me that he is taller than I ever manage to remember. When we meet at the airport, which we often do, we slam our bodies together in a hug, as though it’s been centuries. We find a restaurant with beer, or perhaps margaritas. I spill my guts, he wipes them up, and I remind him not to let his ego run rampant. When I text him at 4am, he says to come over. I cry, because my heart has been broken.

The one time someone broke his, he did not cry, but came to my bed to sleep, pulling me against his chest. In the morning, it wasn’t quite so dark, and we went separately to our breakfasts.


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