Rumble

They arrive from the West Coast, damn liberals with their new-fangled ways and a shoddy jalopy heading east ("East Coast", she says, but he clarifies "what we mean is the South"); we spend a sunset discussing the state of the world and our measly places in it. Eighteen years we've been having these conversations, we know the value of those years. One day on a broken down train in the south of France, we said if we could share an asbestos-infested shoebox and come out friends, we can survive this, and we got off in Nice and had ice cream on the beach without anyplace to stay. One night in a hot Long Island house on a creaky twin bed we said if we could make it through Europe without a shower and come out friends, we can survive this, and we moved to Brooklyn in a whirlwind. The dentist gives you his best smile but you're so focused on not swearing in front of his religious sensibilities that you forget what he's saying. The radio plays country music, a slow drawl moves its way into the curve of your lip, everything is roadside watermelon and childhood summers. Charles Bukowski sits in my rear view mirror, shrugging. You remember every single thing you said you'd give up to join him.

The desert reaches a hundred degrees.

That iced drink in his hand looks like a million bucks and a song.