You by Caroline

“Engine, engine, number nine,” I say and you laugh and I am so
good when I have time to prepare. “What’s up?”
I go in for the hug and you let me hug you and we fit well together.
My arms take you. I could squeeze you to death and to life and I pull
away first because I know how you girls can be about this stuff, your
basic instincts ruined by magazines and TV.
“I brought you something,” you coo.
“You didn’t.”
You respond, “I did.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“Actually, I didn’t die.” You laugh. “So I kinda did.”
We’re walking up to the front and I know why we’re walking up
there. You want me. You want me here. You know that if we stay in these
stacks I’m gonna press you against the F–K placard and give you a
present and I’m behind the counter and I sit as I planned—with my
hands intertwined behind my head as I lean back and put my feet up
and my navy T-shirt lifts just enough so that you can see my midsection
—you need something to dream about—and I smile.
“Show me what you got, kid.”
You lay it on the counter and I lower my legs and move forward and
I’m hunching over the counter. I could touch you I’m so close and I
know you like my cologne because you and Chana lust after a bartender
who wears this cologne which is why I bought it and I open my present,
my present from you.
It’s The Da Vinci Code in Italian and you clap and you laugh and I love
your enthusiasm and this is something that comes more naturally to you
than writing, giving. You are a giver.
“Open it up,” you say.
“But I don’t speak Italian.”
“The whole book’s not in Italian.”
I flip through and you are wrong and you grab the book and drop it
on the counter.
“I know for a fact that the first page is in English. Open.”