It wasn’t Christmas day. It was some other random day, an unimportant one. Yet a day when I was reminded of that Christmas together.
The one where she lay on me for years and watched a wonderful life.
There was spiced rum in small doses from her lips and later rhythmatic motion from our hips.
I could still imagine the salt as I sipped my beer at some restaurant I was in exactly twelve years ago.
The glass glistened in the yellow light like sweat sliding down a narrow neck and I missed her.
Like her my food had been and gone.
I had an empty plate, my beer and a fortune cookie to show for my money.
©G.P Williamson 2017