The car by the lake, the keys
lost in the water. How far
we had to go back.
And I go back
to this moment, to walking the miles
with you through that summer
sun, how we burned. How blind we were
by the time we reached the darkness
of my house, falling asleep together
on the couch before walking back with the spare
key. It was the first time,
one of the only times
that we slept together and when my father
arrived home, found us
like that, he was uncomfortable
in the way that he was always uncomfortable
around any kind of affection. He woke us by making noise,
by pretending that he was not trying to wake us.
I remember how it was with you, how we had
to sneak in this manner
to find one another, how we lived at that reservoir
in the glare of lust there in that sunlight. How empty the winters
were without that escape velocity.
It is going on thirty years now and still
I can be that young in an instant, that stuck
on you. Thirty years and occasionally you still have that pull,
that power. Thirty years and sometimes I let you
because I am empty of that sort of summer
heat these days.
C.C. Russell lives in Wyoming with his wife and daughter. His writing has recently appeared in such places as Tahoma Literary Review, Word Riot, Rattle, The Meadow, and The Colorado Review. His short fiction has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, Best Small Fictions, and Best of the Net. He has held jobs in a wide range of vocations – everything from graveyard shift convenience store clerk to retail management with stops along the way as dive bar dj and swimming pool maintenance. He has also lived in New York and Ohio. He can be found on Twitter at @c_c_russell