EVERYTHING IS STRAINED
You called me.
You said to meet in the cereal aisle.
I was standing in the organic cereal aisle for 15 minutes, then figured you must be standing in the sugary cereal aisle. And both of us, not trying to seem desperate, decided to wait as long as possible before redialing or moving.
I remember you saying, “Can we try to work this out?” last week in your car while Simon and Garfunkel was playing. Parsley, Sage, Rosemary, and Thyme. I kept thinking about different spices and how I’d be too afraid to put them into anything I made.
I remember you smiling, your face a flush from drinking at that party, in that girl’s backyard. You guided drink after drink into my intermittent shaking hands. Orange. Butterscotch. Ice shaped into little half-melted spheres.
I remember cradling your chin and thinking, if I can get away with this the rest of my life, maybe I can be happy.
I left the store grasping the straining handles of plastic that cradled the big box of Flax Plus inside, while my phone incessantly buzzed in my jeans pocket.
