We Met on an Irregular Calendar

We met on a corner in Houston. The sun overhead rang a bell in my ear and I stopped. Between shots of buttermilk, I ate jalapeños from your hands. You were golden. You were 98 degrees in the shade. Sharp as a razor, your first scrape was easy, the next slice scarcely a nick in my husk. Ignoring red sidewalks, I made a quick study, eager to hear you in sirens.

We met at a truck stop in Iowa. I don’t remember the town or the highway. We met at a dive bar in Queens with a bartender wearing a bandana. We met on the last day of autumn, stomping the crackle of leaves on dry streets. 

The seeds in my packets sound like your rattle. The woman next door has your hitch in her walk. I answer the phone as if you had my new number. What days of the week do you wear on your face? How many miles jangle your engine?

I remember when we met on the porch at my aunt’s house. The steel in my boots was a bridge none had crossed, and I’d swapped out my heart for a skillet. The chairs were all taken—the only reason I sat on your lap. We watched the sun sink until the sky black and thick turned to gravy. Together, we listened to crickets. Hungry, you nibbled my ear. I got up to fry you an egg.