I still recall smooth sweep of her brown hair—
guarded from her sad eyes by a small clip—
blended with strands hinting of golden flair,
ends too short to touch her shoulders. Her lips
lost to any smile. Having just broken
up with some guy, fueling her self-pity
with Jack Daniels, she had barely spoken.
Our first date, I juggled and tossed witty
words to her. Ignored, they fell and shattered
at her feet. Feliciano began
his haunting “Light My Fire.” Like a tattered
coat, she crumpled in a corner chair, ran
her finger along the glass rim. She hummed
Jose’s song as his ghostly guitar strummed.
Years before in high school, I had admired
her from afar, like da Vinci’s lady.
But, oh, this college-party night, afire
with longing, I hoped to hold her, maybe
kiss like surprised lovers. But no. I whipped
down brews in revenge, ignored my despair
at her rejection. Laughed. Danced. Then I tripped
away, drunken Caliban; left her there
alone. The staggered streets of Fayetteville
sprinkled couples from frat houses and dorms
where ‘60s music blared caustic and shrill.
Their laughter beat down my slurred threats of harm.
Missing her, I cursed the night: frigid, starry.
Years later, I wish I could say I’m sorry.
Roger Armbrust
April 19, 2007
