In the hot hot heat of August
indecision was as present
as the pearls of sweat
that nestled along our hairlines.
I recall the day you rolled in from the Midwest
for a short week,
all limbs and a crisp green polo;
you looked as uptight as the day we met
on the floor of the DC airport.
Over the loudspeaker at Sea-Tac
they were announcing last call
for a flight to Philadelphia.
We sat at baggage claim,
watching the carousel go round
with the sensation that
we were moving the opposite way.
We held hands shyly.
On our trip to the seaside we were followed by
the sun, cackling and unwavering in the cloudless sky.
We raced past the cars on the highway,
laughing at our new name for the color of my car -
It was like we’d always been together,
coasting—no, speeding—down I-405.
But this was the first time.
And the last.
Now that you’re gone we always
reminisce on the time at the beach in line
for ice cream at the small shack.
We were talking about white New Balance shoes,
about how my mom and your mom wear them
but no one really should
and then when we looked down to see
the man’s white shoes in front of us,
a huge “N” stitched into the side.
We looked up at each other but didn’t laugh,
small, sad, sideways smiles on our faces
that glistened with sweat.