The day after, I stand in the kitchen remembering your laugh as the sun fell through the trees. The three of us were trying to stay in the light’s rays to stay warm in California’s late February chill. In the memory, I see myself turning away from you after a sour attempt at humor.
My innuendo falls flat. I’m not funny. Or cute. Or clever. Just mean and out of tune.
Leaning against the stove I say to you, I’m jealous. I’m sorry about that. I really am.
And the ice melts between us.
