Gummy worms

“What? No. Gummy worms taste like rubber,” I say.

You laugh, that deep, deep laugh that bubbles up like sunshine. But I can tell you’re not really here. Sometimes I wonder why I try so hard to make you laugh- you’re always so serious. I don’t know why we get along.

“Have you ever noticed that the ground is covered in little black circles?” you say. “What ARE those?”
I look around. I never noticed how dirty the streets are. They’re covered in trash and dirt and tire marks and dead things.
“Come on, Mark,” I say. “The sky is pretty. Look at the sky.”

“Hey, there’s a five dollar bill on the ground,” you say, ignoring me as always. You look at me, and your green, green eyes melt me the way they always have.
“Keep it,” you say. “I owe you.”

I smile, but on the inside I’m still trying to figure you out.

We walk in that old drugstore that’s been robbed more times than I can count. It’s bright and smells like cigarettes.

I buy you gummy worms.

You smile, but on the inside you’re still trying to figure me out.

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