She’s tearing a cocktail napkin into strips. Condensation drips off her vodka cran neatly in a pool on the wood. She sweeps it up with her sweater and pushes the hair off her face. A $3 dollar tip for the bartender because he gave her an extra cherry.
The hip-hop stops and the beat slows…“Sittin’ on the dock of the bay — watching the tide roll away…” I hold out my hand and watch as her eyes smile. “This song,” she says, getting up from the bar, drink in one hand, my hand in the other. We dance till the lights come on and I twirl her every chance I get.
Her car is steamy, so we roll down the windows and suck in the early morning mist. At each red light we kiss. She sits close and tugs on the button near my collar. “You taste like salt,” she laughs. Every light turns cherry red. —C. Jarrell
Video: Sean Benik