"You can never tell when
they're done. I guess they open
just enough to let steam escape,
but you can't see the crack.
It's like that."
Allison piles sand over her
feet and smooths it into an even
mound with a piece of driftwood.
She wriggles her toes, and dimples
appear where grains trickle
into invisible fissures.
"Of course, Ed doesn't bother
to call. I sat through the
late show before I put his dinner
away and ate mine cold."
The embers don't even sputter where I
spill some tartar sauce.
"Maybe it's just rigor mortis
holding the shells together. It's
not healthy eating too late."
"I don't mind the leftovers.
Hell, who has time to start
anything new? I shouldn't expect
much. He walks in. He finds his
plate in the refrigerator. All I
get is a 'sorry about the time', and he
puts the string beans and Minute Rice
in the microwave. I hate it. I just
hate it."
"Kiss me."
Allison puts her lips on mine.
They are salty from corn chips.
I pop the tab on the can,
expecting suds to run down my arm.
Nothing happens. It smells
like aluminum and cologne.
I offer Allison the beer.
She shakes her head, looking
at the grey patch that was
the ocean a few hours ago.
Stanford T. Goto