Jake

Sevilla, at night April 2022

You had drunkly tripped and sliced your head open. I met you when the scar was still a fresh red line. Swollen. It made me think less of you. Only unserious people cut their heads open while drunk. But you were studying to be a nurse and you cared about people a lot more than I did. 

You were Jewish on your mother’s side but got all your father’s Irish blood. That bright red blood you had on your forehead when I met you. It looked like it never dried. It never ran down your face, but it never lost its wet shine. 

You had gone to therapy, your ex girlfriend hadn’t been as good to you as you had been to her. You drank a tinto de verano because I did, but if I had gotten beer you wouldn’t have gotten anything. 

I wish I had gotten a beer. 

You were nervous but at least you meant it. You were going to go back to therapy for that too, you said. You had always supported all the people in your life and when we chased each other down the street and you casually threw me over your shoulder I understood why you did it, and more despairingly, why everyone let you.