Can you remember when you fell in love with me? I can. You were drunk, tired, stumbling down the road from your friend’s house in the summer heat. I was out in the night, watching you. You were giggling at your own foolishness, staggering back and forth trying to walk a straight line. It was a country road and the only sounds besides your echoing footsteps were the wind rushing in the live oaks and the low lonesome calls of owls.
The last step you took, you tripped and bobbed and whirled on a broken shoelace like a dancer at the Bolshoi. I saw you fall, arms whirling. You crashed into the ditch face first. I couldn’t speak, couldn’t cry out. Then you raised yourself on your hands from the mud at a glacial pace, turned over, and with a wave of relief I saw your grin, white as a pearl in the red clay covering your face. You fell back, stretched out in the ditch with your hands behind your head, as if it was a lounge chair on a gleaming beach in the Azul, and you laughed.
Then you said it. I’ll never forget it. “I love you, you know,” you said, ebullient joy in your voice. “Yes,” you said as you looked up at my face, glowing down at you. “I love you, Moon.” Then you closed your eyes. I’ve loved you from that moment, too. And I always will.