The Spear Cuts Through Water

by Simon Jimenez

And though one yearning was addressed, another stands sprouting from your concrete. “I thought this was a love story,” you say. Your lola’s insistence has remained with you since the beginning, and you say these words in a quiet manner, with a shrug, as if to let these performers know it is fine, it does not matter that much, this thought—that maybe the definition of what a love story is could be stretched to include all that has up till now taken place. You say it like an apology. Like it is a thing to be apologized for. A runaway child, charging through the porcelain shelves: I thought this was a love story. I had hoped this was a love story. You say it with shame, embarrassed at having said it, wishing you could take it back. You say it, worried that you have betrayed some secret part of yourself that does not wish to be exposed—an old gremlin in you, sick and yearning. You say it with hope. Timid and without conviction. The hope of someone who knows they are about to wake from a dream to a reality they do not understand. The pub awaits, as does your empty bed. I thought this was a love story. You regret having said it; as if you know it will lessen the quality of the tale. Rob it, of its smoke and shadow. But still, you say it. And this moonlit body smiles. And from the wings the patting of the drums slowly builds, and the curtains behind the dancers rise. Because you are right, this moonlit body tells you; this is indeed a love story. Down to the blade-dented bone.