She met me at JFK airport as promised.
Dirty rock-salt-snow clung to her ’70s mountain boots.
I mean the real shit-brown, throwback, faux suede with green laces and aluminum eyelets, ’70s
Christ, does she still own a CPO jacket?
Or desert boots from Thom McAn?
I got rid of my Buster Browns and peacoat when I was eleven.
I’ve heard they’re back in style now.
Everything that goes around comes around.
I’ve heard that too.
“Let’s have a drink,” she says. “I’ve always wanted to drink in an airport bar, haven’t you?”
“I have, too many times.”
She doesn’t believe me.
I remind her I don’t drink anymore, because when I did I
ended up snorting the dirty rock-salt-snow that now clings to her boots.
“Oh, come on, one can’t hurt, I’ve always wanted to drink in an airport bar.”
So she did.
And I did.
I awoke in some hovel south of Brownsville, Texas, and never saw her again.
©2020 William Teets All rights reserved.
William Teets is an author and poet born in Peekskill, New York, who has recently relocated to Waterford, Michigan. He immensely misses New York pizza, the Hudson River, and his beloved Mets. He will write. He will survive. Mr. Teets’ works have been published in Chronogram, The Deadly Writers Patrol, Cajun Mutt Press, Art and Life, as well as in numerous anthologies. He has also published a novel, Reverend Went Walking, and a memoir, Upside Down (One on the House).