“I have secrets,” you say, a sternum perspiration trail pooling in your navel. So much heat and the shade swelters. We press into it, thin blanket (an off brown-perfect-for-picnic color) beneath us, elm canopy overhead. The condensation from plastic bottles dripping off our fingers. Nothing cool enough to quench us, cotton mouthed and sugar-saline starved, I take another long drink, forceful swallows, enough to hurt.
“Who doesn’t.” You hear a question.
“The dead keep them, but no longer have them,” which makes no sense.
Children run by. Saturday in the park and the promise of swimming pools and water-slides driving them ahead of parents who shout useless ‘wait’s’ from behind.
Your skirt is summer short, short. Fabric clinging to thighs, revealing too much, too late. I would have been weaker weeks ago, would have sat closer, fingers pulling grass, wondering.
“If I tell you, part of me is gone forever. It is our secrets, our hidden stories that make us who we are.”
I see myself tongue tracing you. A hotel bedroom somewhere neither of us has ever been. Bad carpet and worse wall art (you would steal some, hang it in the cubicle where you work). Your skin, a salty ocean of opportunity. Stubble on my chin and cheeks leaving abrasions on your stomach and neck.
“When they get too big, take up too much space, I write them on stretched wonton dough in thick red hot sauce. Folded and mixed with herbs and meats, I bake them.”
Pot sticker secret eater.
“I wonder if they lose potency?”