Having an older piece published is a little like going back in time and having the boy you had a crush on ask you to dance. A little bit delicious, a little nostalgic and just a little bit vindicating as well. An old short revisited and revitalized. I hope you enjoy it!
When I arrive, Fisher is measuring and marking planks of wood with a pencil he keeps clamped between his teeth. His bare toes, peeking out from the frayed hem of his jeans, are tapping in time with a reggae song I don’t know the name of. Fisher nods in my direction, pushing black curls off his forehead with his wrist. He sticks the pencil behind his ear and turns back to his wood—my wood. Soon the planks will be bookshelves: a birthday gift, a labor of friendship to atone for all the gifts that have gone ungiven, all the holidays that have gone unmarked. The same holidays I have spent tracing thoughts of Fisher’s face in my dreams, mapping out its angles in my memory.
It takes me a moment now to adjust to the sight of him, to the presence of flesh and bone. I am more accustomed to…
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