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Fireworks are exploding in the east and the west, a limelight of action in the small Oregonian town. The sun has just set over the mountain range, momentarily a cotton candy purple, blurred and misty, and now it is quiet and dark. Very warm no wind. And everything has changed, but for now it doesn’t seem to matter.
Thomas is small next to the fire truck. I have to imagine he’s felt rather small his entire life, chipmunk like features and green green eyes, and that perhaps next to large machinery that he is somewhat in charge of, he feels useful. Context being everything. He’s handsome, in a nineteen-year-old way, and he hangs off the door, half way between two worlds, and listens to the radio for our engine number to be echoed.
Alex and I share a Marlboro cigarette and a quesadilla with salsa on the roof of the truck. I wear a striped white and blue tee-shirt and white shorts, he a green fire fighters uniform and bulky brown boots that make him three inches taller. We kiss between bites, and I tell him Medford is beautiful and that I love the summer. We ask Thomas small questions that border on flirtation, make him uneasy, but he’s a few years younger and answers them formidably, without complaint.
“Do you have a girlfriend up at school?” I ask.
“No” he smiles uncomfortable.
“A girlfriend at home” We prod.
“No” again.
“Hmm.” I say
“I’m what you might call a loner”.
“Sure” Alex cajoles.
“That what you tell girls so they fall in love with you… and then you break their hearts”.
No response as Thomas contemplates that this could, somehow, possibly be his method of predation.
Alex and I were once lovers who slept fingers intertwined. Now we’re lovers who occasionally sleep together and “text” without stipulation. We live hundreds of miles apart. and will live thousands more once summer is over. The degree of friendship in our relationship is at times overwhelming, and here I am in his hometown meeting his family as if we’re a year away from an engagement.
The well we dig is deep.
Thomas is small next to the fire truck. I have to imagine he’s felt rather small his entire life, chipmunk like features and green green eyes, and that perhaps next to large machinery that he is somewhat in charge of, he feels useful. Context being everything. He’s handsome, in a nineteen-year-old way, and he hangs off the door, half way between two worlds, and listens to the radio for our engine number to be echoed.
Alex and I share a Marlboro cigarette and a quesadilla with salsa on the roof of the truck. I wear a striped white and blue tee-shirt and white shorts, he a green fire fighters uniform and bulky brown boots that make him three inches taller. We kiss between bites, and I tell him Medford is beautiful and that I love the summer. We ask Thomas small questions that border on flirtation, make him uneasy, but he’s a few years younger and answers them formidably, without complaint.
“Do you have a girlfriend up at school?” I ask.
“No” he smiles uncomfortable.
“A girlfriend at home” We prod.
“No” again.
“Hmm.” I say
“I’m what you might call a loner”.
“Sure” Alex cajoles.
“That what you tell girls so they fall in love with you… and then you break their hearts”.
No response as Thomas contemplates that this could, somehow, possibly be his method of predation.
Alex and I were once lovers who slept fingers intertwined. Now we’re lovers who occasionally sleep together and “text” without stipulation. We live hundreds of miles apart. and will live thousands more once summer is over. The degree of friendship in our relationship is at times overwhelming, and here I am in his hometown meeting his family as if we’re a year away from an engagement.
The well we dig is deep.