Apothecary

Weeknight dates lovingly fuel weekend daydreams. Strongly etched in pencil, they are easily formed, easily transformed in a flash.

We wrestled with drinks Tuesday. Many dates begin in simultaneous individual performances; struggling to listen, willing to cite the personal details hopeful to beckon desire. I haven’t settled into my chair, one hour in. Nervous tics help me fold my legs incessantly, enough to convince an origami crane it can still reshape itself.

We chose a rooftop for a crucial party to join: the sunset. Any lull in conversation can be thoughtfully transitioned to the operative third wheel, pastel sky with a low hum of traffic. When our nerves beg for maintenance, this support system gives us reprieve. We can clear our minds, ready to dive back into each other’s. She yells at her phone, her eyes are gorgeous green. We both appeal to the romanticism of whiskey; I want to latch to her foundation.

We flow together, not parallel. I’ve finally embraced a more stoic position in my chair. Without competition for interest, there’s time to explore. We share medicinal sweetness, nurture that extends without limit.