His name was “Di” DiAngelo. He was from Boston. We met each other in the local music scene. I remember our wet lips matching our eyes, licking from across the bar. I was in my The Maine skeleton tank top and Lucky jeans. He was in his Call Your Shot snapback.
He was quiet. My body language was stronger than his third round of Espolon Blanco.
He stroked the edge of the bar with his middle finger and index finger. I made acquaintances with them further along.
His grandfather, the one who raised him, got sick. Di had to move back to Boston.
When I hear “Gum” by Mooseblood, I still trace my eyes along his smile creases he had in his cheeks.
Tell me what kind of memories you would like to make this summer. FionaDrakeCle@protonmail.com
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