Make Me Want to Die

bourbon-st-jazz-angel-turner-dyke

Once upon a time I was strolling through New
Orleans with an old lady of mine when I
bumped into a petite French girl I had known
in the days of my youth – we’d discussed Gatsby
and the significance of electric blue
eyes over two-percent milk, played rounds of golf
on my Nintendo Gameboy during lectures
and endlessly mocked each other when one did
something stupid, like dropping and breaking a
glass pipe because it was hot to the touch, or
deciding black denim was a trendy look.
We were just kids, you know? We were idiots.

There on Bourbon Street in a sea of faces
she and I were the only people on Earth.
So many words and phrases crossed my mind. I
wanted to tell her I was crazy about
her … that I always had been, ever since the
moment we met, there on the north side of the
bleachers on the Home side during a track meet.
Instead I managed to say, “Ahhhhh!” I just yelled.
Funny thing is? So did she. We had the same
reaction. I wonder what she was thinking
when I turned and pointed to the female next
to me and said, “So … this is my fiancé.”

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