J a n e - R e b e c c a   C a n n a r e l l a

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I wanted us to be French Impressionists


I wanted us to be French Impressionists, so I emptied out a liter of seltzer and filled it with $10 red wine. The bristles of the paint brushes that I put in my bag were fanned by the time we met at the abandoned Life Insurance building. We sat on the floor of a wood-rotted gazebo and took pulls of sour wine, brushing hands passing back and forth.

 

 

 

Mosquitoes bit our bare legs while we made up stories about the building, and the tales ate up the waning day. I kept meaning to paint using the wine, but I got distracted trying to find excuses to touch you.

 

Security guards made their rounds and we ducked out of view, moving our bodies closer together than necessary. We agreed to leave our sanctuary, the rest of the wine having turned into red mustaches. “Let’s go to the bar.” 

 

Wobbling down the street, we bumped into one another. “Look at that cat.” I tripped at the sound of your voice, and the cat darted in the other direction. By the time we made it to the bar our hands found their way into one another. We sucked on Jolly Ranchers. We drained bottles of beer.   


Drunk and uncaring I pulled your face to mine. Or you pulled my face to yours. Or we met in the middle. A band stopped their set to tell us to keep it PG. I laughed against your lips but didn’t stop. 


You tasted like fruit punch and beer while I searched the recesses of your mouth, candy punctuated breathing.


The room was hot and spinning. I rested my forehead against your chin, your hand on the back of my neck. I wanted to paint us in that moment like the French Impressionists might: openly composed, visible strokes, and full of movement.