Yesterday I turned over a struggling bee on his back on the sidewalk. Touched him gently, flipped him over, fixed his wings. He didn't sting me.
My days are full now with horrible details: calling strangers, paying bills, disconnecting utilities, talking to landlords. I am no good at this. I am not fond of it. I am doing it all by myself.
But watching a bad movie with a friend last night, during a bar scene, I was suddenly struck with a palpable desire for an amaretto sour--my first favorite drink. Bitter, sharp. I wanted it in my mouth. I ordered it everywhere because I didn't know any other drink, until an Italian man scolded me, that's a desert drink.
Once for my birthday at an after hours club in D.C. called Kingpin (upstairs, no sign, next door to the Velvet, steep stairs lit with white candles) Charlemagne the bartender found out it was my birthday, said I was his good luck, and made me free amaretto sours in pint glasses all night.
They lost their liquor license so you had to know someone to get inside. I did. They were doing drugs in the bathroom, and someone would steal the mixed tape a boy I loved made me, but it was my favorite, that drink that detail.
Details are what keep me going, what I love, what I crave. I love so many things. Here are some:
Coming out of a matinee to find it has rained
Touching a new piano
Cracking creme brulees with spoons
Children in backseats who wave
Reading friends' poems
Pollen like snow
What do you love?
I love a tiny, moon-shaped scar.