And Abigail

And Abigail Me and your boyfriend are cordial but sometimes when we dance he comes and presses you.

Can’t tell if he knows something or if he’s just insecure. On Thursdays it makes no difference to me. When you grabbed my hand and pulled my face close at The Catalyst last week, my peripherals wanted to search for him but your eyes told me not to care. Plus all the lights were flashing anyway.

You had a drink in your other hand and I don’t drink but when you asked me to drink I took a sip or three. I hoped we might share a kiss or three. I thought that I was dreaming. Then, you left.

I don’t have your mama’s blessing but I have your sister’s. She likes me more than you do. The first time we met, me and her baked a pie in your home. My hands were full of dough, and you traced a star in my palms. You wore a black turtleneck and I thought you looked like Audrey Hepburn except that when I was trying to describe you to someone I said,

“But her hair is different and they don’t have the same nose and her cheeks are more round and she smiles a little wider—” and eventually I realized that you don’t look like her at all.

Next to the sofa in your living room is a velvet red lamp that casts the entire space in a warm light like it’s October at my Grandma’s house in Compton. My Grandma had these diamond earrings that hung like chandeliers down towards her shoulders. When I was younger, I used to pretend that I lived inside of them; watching glimmers of light reflect around a crystal palace.

That’s what you look like to me.

When the pie was finished, you smiled at me and served a plate to your boyfriend. You went to sit on his lap and then fed it to him and laughed. That’s when I knew I loved you.

Every Thursday night I drive two hours from East Oakland to Santa Cruz to dance with you. And your boyfriend and the 17 freeway are the same; always cautioning my speed forward. Making me twist and swerve around them. Even in the rain. Usually in the rain. A young man died in the rain after being smacked by a truck while working construction on the freeway yesterday.

But that would never happen to me. I am too good of a driver. Your boyfriend has no idea. And Abigail, you are like the airbag beneath my steering wheel that is supposed to keep me safe but could kill me yourself.

Today is Wednesday and I’m picking out flowers to bring you tomorrow night. Make sure to cut them at an angle. Save them for the funeral. No cover charge at my funeral. Come to my funeral in that dress you wore last week and don’t wash out the gin and tonic you spilled on it. Bring your boyfriend too.

I know you have class in the morning but you should stay the night with me. I would never ask you to undress—no no, never. Let’s paint our fingernails and point them towards each other like pistols in a draw. Show me the screensavers on your phone. Touch my mouth with your hands.

Sometimes when I drive home on Friday before the sunrise, a herd of baby deer scurry across the road to their mother hidden beneath the fog and green brush. And they always see an empty passenger seat. So I turn off my headlights in embarrassment. Then, I accelerate.

No one looks at me like you do.

No one looks at me with a blinding fervor that mutes all noise around me like a vacuum, like a space shuttle breaking the stratosphere, like a concussion, like a jackhammer drilling, like an 808 drum, like when you are drowning and gasp for air, like an orgasm, like a rollercoaster, like a stethoscope, like when you walk onto the dance floor and everyone around me becomes silent and slow and you glow like a ruby meeting my gaze like it’s the first time but every time.

Only time we have together is on Thursday.

We should get married at the club. I have like three drink tickets for the honeymoon. And if it doesn’t work out, we can always get an annulment and try again next week.