Rum and Rain and Michael

February 16, 2013
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We took the rum behind the bleachers and we took turns sipping from the bottle and then wincing. We were sitting on his coat on the blacktop, listening to the rain make deep percussive strokes at the metal stairs directly above us, keeping the storm from our heads. This was his first time drinking, and this was my first time being so close to him. Our thighs pancaked together, and although that doesn't sound particularly sexy or pleasant, it was enjoyable. As the rum started making my head top-heavy and my cheeks burn and my fingers lonely I rested my head on his shoulder. "What do you feel like?" I asked him, curious as to how he was taking the alcohol. He had only two swigs and even though I had had four, or maybe three, I suspected we were at about the same grade of drunkenness. He said he felt fine, tired. I told him that was normal, and I thought about how sad it was that I knew what normal drunk feelings were, and then I thought about the fence directly in front of us, and how each metal hole, shaped like a diamond, was enough to let the entire intoxicated haphazard world in in a gushing attack, and how that fence wasn't enough to stop anything; not a small child or a father or a liquidy wall of tumultuous, swelling wrath. Then Michael said something and I said "what" and he said "what are you looking at?" and I said "just the fence" and he said "oh" and then I looked up at him and his eyes were open and bright, like a newborn fawn staring into the searing light of a car hurling straight into it. His lips were nervous and big and pink and I put mine on his and then we were kissing, and we were drunk, listening to the rain as the sun slipped under the soccer fields. And suddenly I felt a jolt, and I knew in that moment that I didn't brake in time and oh no, no, there was no stopping now, no stopping now…

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