I set the air conditioning down to sixty-nine degrees when I receive the call that you're on your way over. I stop. I hold my breath…one…two…three. I let out a sigh. It worked, I think? My dog, Max barks. You’re at my gate. My senses return to overload. I bite my upper lip. I’m smiling too hard; I’ll give it away as to how much I’ve missed you.
We read our tea tag fortunes. Mine is about how wisdom comes with experience, and yours in about opening yourself up to love. I am thrilled you got the love tag. I pour water to the rim and our steamy bags float to the surface. I am suddenly hot again and look at you and smile. You ask if I want to kiss you. I flirt with "maybe." We talk about the temperature of the tea, it'll be twenty minutes later you'll confess you're afraid of relationships. The word trust cartwheels out of my mouth, but it is foreign to you and means nothing. It will take years for me to accept that the ears of your heart have fallen deaf--years before we even met. I write poems in the air.
Waiting for our tea to cool, I give you a tour of my new apartment. We’re in the hallway, between the bathroom and the bedroom. I close the bathroom door and turn to lead you into my bedroom. You gently pull on my arm. I cannot move. You have that smile that lures me closer; you lips and eyes work harmoniously together.
This will be the last of the memories I evict from my heart. I come alive. With life comes fragility, as does the opening of any forest flower.
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