by Angel Colon
There are two places to find something like that. Canal Street or St. Mark's. We settled on the latter because it was closer. We were on that wild stretch between Second and Third that's jammed with street vendors and Asian tourists and karaoke bars and kids who hadn't heard Sid Vicious died.
I sought pools of shadow while you weaved between the racks, wearing dark-colored plaid shorts and a black tank top. Your skin so white it was like the sun never touched you. You modeled sunglasses, plucking them off the racks with your long, thin fingers. Every few pairs you would turn to me and contort your face. I would shrug, like my opinion on these things mattered.
You settled on a pair of cat-eye glasses with thick plastic frames. There were little glass diamonds in the upper corners where the arms met the lenses. You tapped them and smiled.
I didn't like them because I didn't like not being able to see your eyes, but I wasn't about to say that. Before I could say anything else, you pulled a fedora off another rack and put it on my head, then pushed it down until it pressed on the tops of my ears.
You said, I want to buy this for you.
I'm not a hat guy.
You're not an anything guy. You should accessorize more.
You handed me a mirror and the hat didn't look too bad. The guy told you it would be $20 and you talked him down to $15. After you paid, you turned to me and smiled.
Happy birthday, you said.
I don't celebrate my birthday. Living long enough to take another trip around the sun doesn't strike me as much of an accomplishment. If someone hears about my birthday and offers to buy me a drink, I'm not going to turn it down. That's about it. I'm pretty sure I hadn't even told you when my birthday was.
We spent the rest of the day wandering around the city. There was nothing remarkable about it, but every detail is piling on me, so much and so hard I can barely stand.
We stopped at an ice cream truck for soft serve. I got a vanilla cone; you got chocolate with sprinkles. We ate them in Union Square Park while we watched a drum circle, then went to The Strand for air conditioning and books. When the sun dipped below the buildings, we headed to the bars, going from one to another, staying only as long as we could score free drinks. When we were too wasted to deal with the crowds, we went to my roof, where we ate tangerines and threw the rinds over the lip of the building. We laid on our backs and counted the twelve stars strong enough to shine through the light pollution that blots out the night sky. We fell asleep on a gentle slope of the roof and woke the next day, dehydrated and sunburned.
Even now I can hear the slap of your neon-green flip-flops on the sidewalk, smell your perfume of lavender and cigarettes. I remember the way you would cock out one hip when you were standing still, and how your laugh was the sharpest thing about you.
But in this moment, I can't even remember the last time I saw you.
THE HARD BOUNCE
2014 ANTHONY AWARD LOSER for Best First Novel!!!