Let Me Tell You About the Fireworks & Being Gone & Eloisa—
Eric Tran

Let Me Tell You About the Fireworks

Since you asked what I was doing that night, or rather since you texted, Hey let’s
get married because the Raleigh courthouse was open late to let the gays finally
get hitched. Maybe I’ll think yes but instead tell you how I just lost all three sets
of tennis—the first time I’ve played in almost three years. I can mention the queer
tennis group, but not how I’ll lose half my toenails in the coming months because
I’m too eager to get back in shape. But let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves: second
date first. We can mention how the sky is dark and pregnant with rain and storm, how
I ventured onto the courts anyways and you downed pitchers of margaritas downtown,
how maybe I’ll hobble in and out of the shower, and maybe you’ll show up unexpectedly,
still drunk on salt rims. Maybe I’ll say No and maybe you’ll you pin me down anyways,
maybe playfully or maybe not. Maybe I’ll ask you to leave and your face will be painfully,
painfully quiet. But again, too far ahead. Slower. I need to tell you about those fireworks:
they’re like sparks flying in metal shops, only they’re falling on my car idling at the
stoplight. It’s a shower of gold, sheets and sheets of twinkle lights and I’m tempted to
lower my windows and palm a handful. Later it’ll rain for real, a thunderous, flooding
downpour, but I need to tell you all of us on the road are maybe so happy about tonight’s
victories and losses that we don’t mind going slow, don’t mind politely moving

single file. I need to tell you everyone probably gets home safe.

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