The Record

Kisses, too, tasted of iron the year we lived in twilights. They tilted warily like bags of groceries I'd carry up the stairs to find you in boxers, the smell of coffee mixed with vinegar from the bowl of pickle juice you soaked your fingers in trying to hurry the callouses. We trafficked in the grief of incompatible day and night, we stretched the hours as best we could, but mostly we practiced a kind of starving, excruciating to recall how hard we tried. I'd unpack the groceries and tell you about the day, and after dinner you'd pick out a tune on the guitar (it was the year you apprenticed to the blues). Before each nights...