i tasted cold orange juice with lots of pulp first on my lips, wetting them with acidic goodness and then on my tongue.
i held very strong to that hand of hers, that she gave to me as we made our way down the wet street that reflected the city back at us like a black mirror.
at the end of every block we jumped from one spot of dry concrete to another, making our way over rain puddles that had collected along the curb. we laughed as we both knew that we resembled frogs jumping from lily pad to lily pad. stopping in the middle of the crosswalk, we asked danger to come out and play. the glaring lights of an oncoming yellow taxi laying on its horn made us dash like foxes out of dangers way onto the sidewalk.
you laughed . . .
i remember you laughed . . .
that is what i remember.
i held on tight that night. to your hand, to your laughter.
i tasted orange juice with lots of pulp tickle the back of my throat and make its tangy way down to my stomach. the aftertaste a most peculiar of sensations.
i remember gazing into a store window display, and as i began to comment on "how beautiful the . . . . "
i saw my reflection against the window pane standing alone. i did not need to turn to know that you were gone and that i was alone. the silence spoke with deafening reality.
well in truth i had just wanted to tell you "how beautiful the toy train locomotive was that pushed and pulled its cargo of stuffed animals and candy canes" . . . . and that . . . well, "how cold orange juice with lots of pulp felt like . . . "