Another Sunday

“I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You absolutely do.”

“When am I even supposed to have said this?”

“In your sleep.”

“You know that doesn’t count.”

“That’s the only thing that counts.”

Our hands unclasp as we are forced apart by a few stranglers in the throng of people. My hand feels empty. I clutch my dwarf patio peach tree tighter under my arm and wonder where I’ll put her when we get home.

I feel their eyes on me. My skin always itches when they look at me like that.

We’ve stopped, apparently. This plant feels heavier when I’m standing still. I can feel it in the soles of my feet. Like they’re being flattened, collapsing in on themselves. The plastic pot cuts into my arm.

Turning to see why we’ve stopped. They’ve got their palm on a stranger’s shoulder.

“Sorry. I don’t want to be weird, I just love your style.“

“Oh, thanks.”

“I thought you might like to know that you were being admired.”

“It’s always better to know…”

Another Sunday

Who are these people? Where do they come from?

I remember this morning. Their hand is in mine, their lips on my stomach, my tongue between their legs. But now they’re a stranger among strangers.

I feel the pot slip and myself with it. We’re lying together in the dirt. Soil beneath our fingernails. Roots tangled in our lashes. Wet and warm.

Tulips tangled together in the wind.