Kissing Tree


I call her or she calls me on the first rain of Spring and we meet where we first kissed. This is historical re-enactment, only with more saliva. We stand under the Maple on 21st and we kiss and the rain gathers in the star-shaped leaves and falls in huge drops, like water balloons.

It’s my turn to be seeing someone else, but when we kiss I’ll forget Sarah, like she forgot Marcus last year. Every year we remember love like it’s a bicycle, but after we kiss we can walk away. I don’t have to deal with her office gossip and she doesn’t have to deal with my baseball news.

This year she gets there first, but she’s sitting on a stump. It was our tree but it was not our tree. We gamely try to slog through it, but the kiss is wrong. The rain comes down like lances, not bombs. And I’m thinking of Sarah and she’s thinking of whoever will come after Marcus. And maybe she was thinking of Marcus last year, and maybe I was thinking of that waitress.

Probably we should even thank whoever cut that tree down. Probably.

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