Page 15 of Poetry By Dead Men
I hit send before I can think too much about it, then instantly regret it.
My cheeks heat as the three little dots appear, then disappear. Then appear again. A few seconds later, his reply comes through.
Bobby: Is that the general population speaking, or is that what you think?
Me: Both.
Bobby: Good to know.
Our conversation continues as he asks about my weekend plans, flowing so easily, I don’t even realize that the movie has ended and Molly is snoring next to me. We text back-and-forth about nothing and everything, sending messages nearly until the sun comes up.
It’s not until I’m bleary eyed with exhaustion that we say goodnight.
Bobby: I’ll see you Thursday. I’ll have a latte waiting to make it up to you.
Beth: With lavender?
I lie down and pull a blanket around me.
Bobby: For you? Always with lavender.
NOW
August 2024
Roses are still red,
They also are thorny.
When you wear that dress,
I get really (redacted)
—A poem by Harrison Rouchester, stolen from a grocery store greeting card
My tongue feels like sandpaper, and my head is throbbing. I squeeze my eyes tighter against the bright sun filtering in through the slatted window shades, wishing we'd picked a different townhome. One that doesn’t greet the sunrise at the butt-crack of dawn every morning.
It’s never bothered you before,my subconscious says.
"Shut up," I mumble, very much aware that I’m arguing with myself. I blame the alcohol—my third glass of champagne turning into several more before we’d finally gone home.
The door creaks open, and I pull down the covers a bit and crack open an eye. Harrison walks in, already showered and in his golf attire. I almost tell him to leave me alone, but then I see the cup in his hands.
Coffee.
Blessed caffeine.
I might have changed a lot since the last time I saw Bobby, but one thing thathasn’tchanged is my insatiable need for strong, liquid sludge.
Harrison sits gently on the bed, handing me the cup. Black. I groan inwardly but sit up and take the warm mug from his hands. It’s not that Harrison doesn’t know how I like my coffee. He just flat out refuses to indulge me.
Serious people drink black coffee, he always teases. It’s become a sort of joke between us, and whenever I get the chance around him, I order my normal concoction with a broad, shit-eating grin. It doesn’t normally bother me that he doesn't make my morning cup the way I’d prefer it, but just this once, I wish he’d made at least alittleeffort. I don't even need the lavender, but couldn't he dump in some milk, at the very least?
"Serious people drink black coffee," he says, smiling as if reading my mind.
I smile and nod. "So you’ve said," I answer, taking a large gulp.
Instantly, I feel like a new person. My mouth is less gritty, and my eyes finally open fully. "You’re golfing today?" I ask, leaning back into the pillows.
