After a day in the sun, burnished sand hot against my body, I drank a G&T by the pool, listened to my emotional soundtracks from the 80s and 90s that I should have avoided because they only brought back memories of you, me, dips in the ocean, kisses, tongues, fingers splaying through thick hair, impossibilities. And last night, I dreamt of you. My husband, your wife, allowing us to be together, so improbably, impossibly. Me sliding an arm around your thickened waist, you doing the same to me, and us looking into each other’s eyes: is this okay? Are we allowed after almost 30 years to do this? Be this?
Morning comes and I am alone. There’s a post on Instagram. You and Sarita are to be grandparents. You both smile with your daughter and son-in-law. A pang swirls through me then strikes like a hot knife, unexpectedly, and I long for my just departed sweet dream where, just for one moment longer, you are mine, your warmth is mine, your breath is mine, and our fingers entwine, mine. Mine.
You were once mine.
A playlist for Mine: