juju-bean
BY RANDY TRISTANT
A light in the space between the buildings; the shimmer, glitz and glimmer of the incandescent sun, on the windows, blue turned orange. Juju-bean, plain but not simple. The tint of your sunglasses faded, a musty, old, grease-stained Patriots hat, a dim blue, your ashy brown locks to pair it with; haunting, soft brown eyes, riddled with Christmas lights, specs of a city, a life past, dates at Don Nicola’s, you pepperoni and I plain cheese, grazie! A bleak attempt at a conversation between a surfeit of soggy, crinkle-cut fries and a pair of burgers: mine just ketchup please and thank you, yours with ketchup, mustard, mayo, lettuce, tomato, cheese, and don’t forget the pickles, please. My glimmer glass, the sweet reflection of your warmth tinting the glassy blue with sugary strawberry pinks, sweet-n-sour oranges; a mélange of the sweetest fruits, overripe, soon to be spoiled. Ploughing the fields in that bulldozing hearse of yours with me besides you, a speeding ticket off of 69th and Collins after a trip to the soft MIA sand grains, which became our home, our legs intertwined, my hands in your hair, a cheap bottle of red wine – my least favorite – the creases in your eyes crinkling, forgetful of the dreary old carcass of MIA. Days spent on my balcony, cold, hard, wood-resembling tiles, back to back, then face to face, simultaneous breaths and hiccupping heartbeats, soft fingers tracing your tattoos, an Incan Fortress, a yin and yang ruined by a cat scratch, Elizabeth called you out on it, a bitter tangerine. Again in that bulldozing hearse of yours, S.S. Juju, headed to Strike 10, where we beat ourselves with bowling pins, bedridden galaxies, sparkling across the black walls, dimmed out by the light of day. You with your single pair of shoes, black, a men’s size 9, same as me – as if I could ever fill your shoes. Drowsy from the daylight meant interminable nights, my green air mattress topped with a flimsy fleece blanket, barely enough to keep me warm, yet alone the both of us, though ultimately unnecessary in this MIA heat with the AC set to 75 at night. Awoken by a soft heartbeat at 0400, you tell me to get some sleep, I have to buy food for my cats anyway, a kiss on the forehead from my bitter tangerine, Juju-bean riding off in his bulldozing hearse, 10 tins of cat food, an angry mother, an apathetic grandmother. Our story ending with nothing but sighs in between juices, fruit flies, and a black hearse to carry the dead remains of us.