You were a bit more Rat Pack,
and your lungs were evidence –
you loved to sing, you loved to drink,
but you gave me that Frank Sinatra line
every time I put a record on. The argument started
because I took too long to answer
a question. What do you want for dinner?
Forgive me, I was swaying on my own,
tongue-tied as usual. When you grabbed me,
spun me around and wrapped your hands
around my neck, my waist stopped moving
in an instant. I could smell the martinis,
close enough to kiss, and all you said was
“Stop. Just stop dancing and talk to me.”
You forgot the movement was just as important
as the music. The motion as important as the words.
I held out my hand and you growled, “I won’t dance.”
I was wearing the ghosts of your fingers like a necklace
when the elevator finished pushing my stomach
into my mouth. I really would have liked it
if we just had spaghetti. But I had to run.
Kris Hiles is an autistic lesbian creative. She lives in a New England dream with her wife, plants, and record collection. You can probably find her at a ballgame or museum, or on Twitter @KrisHiles.