You promised me that, during your one-hundred-forty-character talent show admission of love, I would not want to fall asleep once. You promised me that, if I spun around nine times on a Tuesday while drinking a Bloody Mary, I would find my true love in a week. At least.
You climbed in through the window and said, "Hey, come to the beach with me."
"But, Sadie, it's twenty-three-hundred."
"I don't care. Let's go."
We stood on the beach, then, seven hours before dawn. Our breath hung between us like an angel.
I threw some salt over my left shoulder.
You told me how you found true love, or the square root of one-hundred-forty-three, by taking four steps down a sandy hill and shouting.
From the Bastille to Trump Tower?
3 hours ago