It was so hot that you didn’t wear clothes,
only threw the windows and the shutters
wide open and hoped for a breeze.
The nights I couldn’t sleep, even with
only a single sheet. You lay on the bed
all afternoon while I sat and played
guitar, the cool wood against my chest,
until you asked me to stop. We showered
several times a day, sometimes together.
When it got dark, we ate and drank
bottles of wine out on the patio, the sticky air
sweet with the heavy scent of honeysuckle.
It overpowered us. In the afternoons I was
consuming books while you did sketches,
when we could summon the concentration.
Some days we drove to the sea, listening
to Scarlet’s Walk until you pointed out
that we should listen to something more
Spanish. The only thing I could think of
was Sun Kil Moon, but even he sings
about San Francisco over the Spanish
guitar. Still, it complemented the landscapes
we were speeding through, looking like
saturated photos through our sunglasses.
That night I stopped reading Faulkner
and started on the translations of Lorca
from a Southern Review. I read you
some while you lay on your chest, recovering
from the day out of the apartment.
When I put down the book, you got up
and we danced like gypsies across
the wooden floor, naked and restless.
My older brother always used to tell me tiny stories. He said “the world isn’t made up of particles, like they tell you in school. It’s made up of tiny stories. Tiny stories ar...