How to make lines

Food satisfies both the physical need for nourishment and memory.

Sometimes, I rarely remember what we talked about that day, what we did, or what we felt at a particular moment unless I write them down; but I often keep track of what we eat, and how we bond over food.

They are like triggers that recreate an afternoon, morning, or evening for me – memories that are disjointed because I only remember lips, tongue, hands, eyes that all play a part in the feast. It is vaguely sensual this way.

Picarre Vanilla Milk Shake – P65

I remember the vanilla sky. I remember the milky froth of the clouds and the little yellow biplane you pointed out in the distance.

I remember how you were rushing, problematic over the money in your pocket, and how I marveled at how easily I can read your face now, even if you deny what you really feel most of the time.

Picarre Iced Coffee – P75

I remember my icy look, and our brief stand-off at the table, before I asked you to hand me the ruler – to get your homework tasks over and done with.

I remember the melting awkwardness when you clapped at my line-drawing. I remember your mocha-skinned fingers, tracing the lines of your medical book, looking for the answers.

I remember spooning out the thick, foamy cream atop your drink, and the velvet sugar taste I love.

Picarre Banana Split – P130

I remember eating the cherry first, a figurative vindictiveness for sour memories and infidelities. I remember that you like chocolate, and that the pineapple bits taste like onions. I remember how we dipped our long and slender spoons into the bowl, fishing for morsels.

I remember how we left it on the table in haste, a sad pool of pinkish-brownish ice cream soup – the color of pale blood.

I remember thinking about the next time we can share an afternoon like this, when we’re less troubled about looming goodbyes, and we’re more inclined to make saccharine memories.

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