accidental tent ass-grabbing
we were staying in a tent warmed by all our best friends as frost licked the ground outside. i don’t pretend to be yours, even in the dark, and you are anything—blonde, blue-eyed, and majoring in chemistry—but mine. we are both honest, both earnest, both have good intentions. still, at twilight, we kept exchanging glances like we were half-wistful for the nights in october when it was still warm enough for me to wear my jean cut-offs. the nights we would go out too much, walk too far to too many house-parties that harbored free music and cheap beer. we never danced together, but when i walked home barefoot, chances were that you could be found, stepping over the cracks in the sidewalk, leading us home. i gave you spearmint gum when you drank too much. we used to joke about your facial hair. i only rested my head on your arms once, after several beers, on the grass adjacent to an elementary school playground, in the dark, but it was enough to convince me of my contentment in our friendship. now, staying in a tent, all our best friends are jumping around on the air mattress. i’m lying down like a cat among birds. you lose your balance and shield your fall with a hand. it lands right on my ass.
i can still, even months later after the inconsequential incident, recall your face in that sliver of time with a precise certainty that comes from contentment. after the o of your mouth, the shock of mine, your hasty retreat from the back of my jeans and eight-hundred apologies later, i still like to think of it as the happiest kind of accident. i’m not fully content in our friendship now, and i might not be for a long time.
