by Julián Esteban Torres López

The obese night fell heavy with the rains.
We remained at home.
Made shadow puppets with our feet
using light from the fireplace.

Spoke of funerals and weddings never attended.
Cried about laughter,
laughed about tears.
Ate bread and potatoes
even though it was past our bedtime.
I taught her how to become ticklish.
She threw a banana at me.

She told me to type on the keyboard.
Didn’t matter what, she just liked the sound.
She told me she hated haiku
but recited her favorite one anyway.
I think it was the one from Kerouac and two
eighteen-year-old sisters?)
“Now that’s clever,” she said,
since they were twins!”

We chased the cat, pretending it was a mouse,
and the mice smiled relief for a night.
We made presents for strangers
and picked addresses from the phonebook
and left them ready to send in the morning.

We timed each other pee, twice.
She beat me once.
I combed her hair.
She massaged my feet.
Not in that order
but at the same time.

We stared at each other’s faces for
ten…straight…minutes.
At the end I felt like I could have fallen in love.

I told her I didn’t like squash.
She told me I would if I tried it
at least twenty-one times.

We threw our change on the carpet,
counted our pennies,
and searched for ones not made of copper
from the second world war.

She bit my lip after watching the vampire movie.
I bled.

She asked me when I was to buy Q-tips.
I told her, “They are too expensive. And while we’re
on the topic, I haven’t used deodorant in four months.”

The hammock became our cocoon that night,
and we fell asleep before I could undress her.

The fog rose,
making way for the yawn of morning,
which we didn’t hear.