Remember, Leanne, that day at the park? The sun was out, we were holding hands. Those boys behind us were calling us names. I kept on walking but you turned around. You gave them the finger and said, kiss my sweet ass.
I remember, she says.
Remember that poem you wrote, Leanne? About being little. Not being able to reach the top shelf. You read it to me that night we made fudge.
I remember, she says.
We stirred and we stirred. Remember Leanne? It never set and we ate it with spoons.
I remember, she says.
Remember that car we had, Leanne? ’64 Fairlane with red leather seats. Push-button transmission. Great looking car. We named it Farley, for Farley Granger. “Strangers on a Train.” Remember, Leanne?
I remember, she says. I remember you wrecked it. I remember the bag that fell out of your purse. Reds and blues. Hundreds of them. You told me you found it. And I believed you. I wanted to.
Leanne looks at me.
I remember, she says, when I figured it out. That you and I were practically strangers. That I loved you but you loved them. Crisscross. Crisscross. Just like in the movie.
I think for a moment. I look at Leanne.
Would you have loved me—if I had told you?
She picks up her keys. She opens the door. I thought I’d seen all the faces she wears, but Leanne looks at me like I look at my watch.
You know the answer. That’s why you didn’t.
Her footsteps creak on the old wooden stairs. I tell myself that’s what sadness sounds like. The tap water’s cold; she only just left but there’s nine in the bottle, five blues and four reds. I wait and remember and when it gets sharp, I throw them all down and throw my head back.