night.

two years ago, you were standing in my kitchen. I was sitting on top of the counter and your height then matched mine when you turned to ask me why I had canned salmon, and I blushed because I was a vegetarian. up until that night, your words were always dark, as dark as my kitchen that night. I remember there was a strand of christmas lights that were either on or off. you tried with your song and dance tease, and that laugh. and you kept going, teasing. and I didn't like you anymore. I didn't want you in my kitchen anymore. I didn't want you that night or that night to happen anymore, but I had picked you up just an hour before and I don't remember why. it was dark. that was why. I wore a dress and the last time we talked you asked me how I was doing, told me your parents were getting a divorce, and then you interrupted your own sentence with a memory of that dress. it wasn't even that special, that dress, but if anything is nice to think about, it's a girl sitting on the kitchen counter.