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Across from me a man has drifted asleep, and I too, would rather these eyes close right there with him.

It’s impossible forgetting my friend, the orchestration off her pages, or that story told from a seat on a train. I think she ate crackers, when melon wasn’t in the house and had a preference for lemongrass, the smell, she’d say, isn’t Asian to me. Of course, she was coy and I’d laugh, watching her head droop over the soup in all sorts of pleasure and impatience. If it wasn’t for her eyes, the way they hadn’t shown age, or the red that wrapped and framed her, the gestures of men wouldn’t have felt so promising and she wouldn’t have been the same.

Across from me a man has drifted asleep, and I too, would rather these eyes close right there with him.

It’s impossible forgetting my friend, the orchestration off her pages, or that story told from a seat on a train. I think she ate crackers, when melon wasn’t in the house and had a preference for lemongrass, the smell, she’d say, isn’t Asian to me. Of course, she was coy and I’d laugh, watching her head droop over the soup in all sorts of pleasure and impatience. If it wasn’t for her eyes, the way they hadn’t shown age, or the red that wrapped and framed her, the gestures of men wouldn’t have felt so promising and she wouldn’t have been the same.

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