We spent the morning before just talking.
He said your body is slick like construction equipment, how it can move the sand to make a runway for my unhurried strut.
He said your body is like a French fry on a laminated paper plate.
In the high noon sun, I said you have a survivor’s disposition. It makes you gray.
Slick and survivor made us think of our own days of darkness, his coated in motor oil on the gulf coast in search of something white, mine coated in olive oil, garlic, sea salt tears and smooth jazz.
I told him his gray feathers and white food made me think of marbles.
I told him that it seemed odd that he prefers dark drinks when we come out to the beach like this.
He sipped his diet soda and said you just don’t understand, but I saw the white shining in the furthest reaches of his black eyes, that look as if he was already gone.
He walked toward me for a kiss, then changed direction. Sprinted to the white pearl beached in the sand.
I yelled to him as he passed me that I could see how, after living in all that oil, the clean sand, the white, could feel romantic, but inside I was hurt.
He picked the piece from the sand with an instinctual fervor then gave a soul-curdling squawk.
He swallowed the Mentos and exploded like a fourth of July firework over Coney Island.
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