delusion

We were walking down the street - together, which was absurd enough as it is.

This familiar stranger, the one who's face is still foreign to me from certain angles, I had never met him before.

But, he remembers. He remembers when my foot fell apart, followed by my love, followed by my life.
I remember that he remembered my birthday. I remember the way he made the tragedy of eating fish soup before a first date seem almost comedic. Almost.
He's the voice that answers crying calls and the voice that reminds me that I don't need that cunt.

He was here. For the first time, and just like always. We laughed without emoticons at the low-budget stand and the serious but smug looking salesmen.

"Volcano Insurance, Only $1", he announced as we approached.
I reminded him that we live at the beach. He looked like he was going to cry so I offered him 14 cents and a packet of sugar. He took the 14 cents and tore a hole in the sugar with his teeth.
He poured the crystals into his mouth and spat them back at out at me in wet clumps.

"Do you like my suit?", he asked as we walked away.

I didn't give a fuck about the suit. I was impressed by his kicks. With his pressed suit and properly knotted necktie, the Volcano Salesman wore black velcro strap Reeboks.

With the straps perfectly crossed over each other in an X, the way the rad kids did in 1986.

California's pink sun sets, ignored for the novelty of Texas - inflected stories and the way we don't say "Isn't it kind of sad? This may be the only time that we...".

It's dark now and the ocean is just a black noise underneath us. We watch the moon and the the masts cast shadows over the harbor and I wish, just for one second, that I had velcro straps to cross over my shoes.

1986 is like Texas, so far away.