By J. Savage, Contributor
i sat across from jacob martinez. we shared
the extra creamy strawberry milkshake.
there aren’t a lot of people who’ll stick straws into
the corner of the mcdonald’s restaurant booth
let you compare anecdotes: do you think
he—christopher—is really dragging it out,
is mark hot enough to warrant me ruining
his marriage, or would it be my fault to
begin with. the fries are very salty. i
was five when i saw my first dick does
that count? of course not. it counts when
you really want it to.
when we leave we walk like we’re 15:
talking about boys and discovering possession for
the first time. there’s a certain untouchable-ness
that comes with going through the same
thing as someone else, provided the
person makes you feel your best self.
jacob martinez is as short as i am and he
is always so happy to see me. we walk
to the willingdon overpass and wait for the 123, talk
about who suits their scales and scales their
suits best. in his face there is only a warmth.
the moon is always a cold white. jacob
martinez’s name rolls off the tongue so nicely
i have to remind myself to say it every chance
i might have. so different from how i stutter. can
i ask who-? i tell jacob martinez i don’t want to
say that man’s name. i made a rule and it’s
like this: you should only say names that make
something, somewhere, feel beautiful. i love
the way it sounds to say jacob martinez: like a
sunny sweet strawberry milkshake you’d really
been craving when you know you deserved it.
PULL: you should only say names that make something, somewhere, feel beautiful.
