I’m standing in the same bar my parents met in,
and my grandparents went on their first date,
and there’s a boy.
He’s laughing, as he spins random girls through a room so crowded you can hardly breathe.
I watch as they dance,
moving with rhythm,
spinning with time.
I cannot wait any longer.
I approach him,
and ask him to teach me… to fly.
and he spins me so fast I can’t even see the world around me.
In a beat he stops my spinning,
tosses me into the air,
like rice after a wedding.
He catches me in a cradle
and throws me again.
People watch in awe of how effortlessly he moves.
We proceed spinning around the room,
and as the music ends he his breathless.
Panting as he looks at the young girl beaming at him.
I notice his eyes as they examine the curves of my waist,
and the rise of my breast.
Don’t think I didn’t.
He’s shy now, quiet, contemplative.
“Is there anything else I can do for ya darlin?” he almost pleads.
“I’d let you buy me a drink…” I tease
Because in this moment I want to forget who, or rather what, I am.
We stand, sweat dripping down our faces
in the same bar my parents met in, and my grandparents went on their first date.
He pulls out a chair, and moves closer.
He’s a soldier.
He’s got a purple heart to prove it.
And another so pure and true
heaven reserved him a spot years ago.
I’m waiting for him to remember me.
It’s been years, but everything will click soon enough.
I want this life.
Random beautiful men,
in smoky bars.
Who aren’t afraid to dance.
Who aren’t afraid to love.
Who aren’t afraid to lose.
He looks at me again.
His eyes sparkle but there it is.
That goddamned hint of recognition, my facade is up.
We’ve been talking for an hour,
“I know this story,” He begins, “I know you.”
“Yes. I’m ben’s baby sister.”
His eyes bulge, as he realizes he just spent the evening
fantasizing about a girl he used to lock in closets
and play hide and go seek with (but without the intent of seeking.)
He’s spent more time than he ever wanted to
dreaming about his best friend’s lesbian sister.
The jig is up.
I’ll never live this life, he knows it. I know it.
But he’s too much a gentleman not to offer another dance.
Ya know, I don’t like being the lesbian little sister,
because I love the comforting normalcy and protective strength of his arms.
And I love the way people gawk at the “cute couple”
that waltz through the crowded sea of strangers.
I love the image of country boys, with country girls,
that two step all in stride.
But I also am struck by the woman in his arms.
I can’t help but notice the tantalizing shake of her hips.
The fall of her hair,
the slope of her neck.
While I sit listening to his words.
I’m fantasizing about the velvet purr of her voice as she pulls a drag of the cigarette and pouts.
I can’t stop myself from dreaming of the venom of her kiss as her lips press to mine.
I love the strange Nebraskan normalcy of a mans strength against a woman.
But I can’t change my desire for her,
and I can’t change me.
Even if I am in the same bar my parents met in, and my grandparent’s went on their first date.
Sometimes we just have to be someone else.