Wayfare

I had a dream about you last night.

What was I doing?

Guess.


We were in the Yangtze River Valley. You became scared. To make you feel safe, I fought the first animal we came across. The alligator was no match to my strength.


Close.


You were cooking with peppers.
I called them capsicums.
“Peppers.” You seethed.
“Capsicums.”
“PEPPERS.”
You asked me politely to stop being such an asshole, tears of frustration sat behind your eyes. I didn’t see them, I was googling ‘capsicums.’



Closer.

We sat atop a hill in what I imagine Greece to be. You allowed my hand to find the tired parts of your neck. Your shoulders relaxed and I said "you're beautiful." You told me my compliments felt like punches to the gut. From where we were, I couldn't see the Mediterranean, but I could feel it.

Almost.

We were playing catch on the Commons. We impressed a crowd with accuracy of pitch. Yankees' manager Joe Girardi watched, amidst the crowd. He approached us, offered contracts. We moved to New York within the week. Our fans were many. They nicknamed you 'tall stop'. You were a great short stop, but 'tall for a girl.' The fame went to your head. You became so hideous. Finally, during a crucial game we lashed out at each other, infield. In what would become the beginning of the end of your career in baseball, you were traded to Indiana. That was the last time I heard your voice. Ever.


My first piece of published fiction. Published in the Coast's postcard fiction contest winners. April 2009 I think.