A puddle bloomed on his knee,
as he sat beneath the poplar,
before the church,
waiting.
Anytime now, she
would whiz by on her bike
that made noises like a rabid top.
The two soggy cones, held
in his shaking fists
dripped
strawberry cream,
sticky, pungent, and pink.
He had heard that girls like pink.
Roadside gravel crunched
and spun as she
approached.
Her brown legs
were always moving, the
muscles changing—they would
have driven Leonardo mad.
She passed by
blind.
He let the pink
cones fall to the dirt with
the others. Ants gnawed on his
legs. He would try again.
Climbing on the
bridge
with hands full,
always of strawberry cream,
he wavered, nearly fell, and sat
down on the stone ledge.
Gravel ricocheted.
Sleeves,
his and hers,
touched as she passed.
He nearly fell in the water, but
she touched his sleeve,
touched him.
Pink
swirls teased
fish in the rocky creek.
He became a crossing arm with
strawberry cream cones.
Stones sprayed.
Crash.
Why didn’t
you move, you idiot,
she growled, wiping bloody stones
off her once-perfect
knees. He didn’t
speak.
I love you.
Can you move? My
boyfriend is waiting for me, she said,
standing on the pedals,
her legs still.
Numb,
he shifted,
and she whizzed away.
He looked at the gravel lining the bridge
and saw blood staining
the pebbles
red
and pink.
Sifting, them through his
fingers, he knew that on her, he had
left his mark, and him,
she would not
forget.