The Docks

There are always cops on that road, slow and windy, cars lining the sides like sardines in a can. Sidewalks packed with four rowdy teenagers. Three small terriers, one with a limp. A frail old woman wearing a blue cardigan holding her husband’s hand.

I can’t hear anything over my music but I don’t want to.

A squirrel scampers over the road and I go to tap on my brakes just in case–no more squirrel pancakes–but he’s gone as fast as he came.

I heard it was getting worse again, a new wave. Two, Three, Four. So we keep on driving.

“Just a taste,” my mother used to say. “You have an addict’s personality. Just like your father.”

I am the coffee and bleach that clings to my clothes and skin, so dried and sticky I don’t know what’s sweat or syrup anymore.

Everyone says it’s better when it’s hot but I just get sad; the summer nights taste like old tears and laughter of people I’ll never see again if I’m lucky.

But us? We have good nights where I laugh until my sides ache and drink until I’m nowhere. Your smile lights up the night, your eyes catching mine, bringing me back to earth only to get lost in them again.

“Is she not wearing a bra?” Yes, because I’d rather not. But I didn’t know they said that until you told me, because boys will be boys or so they said, but you weren’t one of them because you were wearing one.

Broken bottles and beer cans peppered the beach, idiots who don’t know how to use trash cans.

When we stumbled home, I felt nothing, but I was happy.

Down by the docks, the waves kept crashing.