I am holding a styrofoam cup, resembling the sliver of moon I was on that hot July morning. I am outside myself, slipping into something completely unknown. My ring finger remains barren, and two white flecks paint my middle right finger near the tip. Here I am, in one of my favorite pictures of the first photos we took as a couple, on that morning we ate at the bar of your neighborhood diner.
I am awkward and un-showered, my hippy length brown hair hanging in strands around my thin, pale face. You, sit to my left, dipping a Southern biscuit into creamy chunks of mushroom gravy. I remember looking down at my plate of greasy toast and stray scrambled eggs, pushing my fork around as small talk.
We weren’t even a couple yet, actually, and for this reason, the photo of my hands nursing something lukewarm in the hot July sun seemed sweet and more intimate than I felt.
This was how you wooed me, slowly, and way to quickly, over breakfast, Sunday after Sunday. Until my hands naturally gravitated toward yours.