Whiskey & Ribbons

by Leesa Cross-Smith

We were waiting at the right stop and the drunk train was five minutes away.

From the beginning of our relationship I knew wherever she’d go, I’d go.

We kid around about women being crazy or maybe sometimes we were serious but deep down we all knew the truth. Women weren’t the crazy ones. We were.

“Women, you are sleek and gorgeous. You hold us together, you’re the ribbons. We’re men. Dangerous only if you take us too seriously. We’re the whiskey. To whiskey and ribbons,” Eamon said, lifting his glass.

Truth was, she was a whole flower, not a petal. Resilient, honest.

He was hyper-aware of my sensitivities and so gentle with me—my glass bones, my glass heart—never stomping in the kitchen of my feelings so he wouldn’t cause my heart cake to fall.

But to be fair, Frances seems to be the kind of woman who can have sexual chemistry with a house plant.

Fall and winter were sleepy and summer was unabashedly on fire, but spring was both expected and unexpected depending on us—a chance to begin again if we were willing to take it.

What no one tells you about grief is that you don’t want to figure out a way to live with it—you want the part of you that hurts to die instead. Living with it isn’t an option—a part of you has to die.