I’m not supposed to talk about it. I said I wouldn’t, I said it was yours alone. I didn’t lie, but I chafe like the leather collar you let me buckle onto you, like the cuffs that don’t have the fuzz inside. I search your face every time I do it, I tense at the gasp, a tigress relax of sin and skin winding themselves around keys and locks and your eyes, dear god, your eyes. They close for me, sheathing the blinding green conciousness in little flaps of lickable flesh. I could bathe in the lines radiating from your eyes, crows feet to claw me down and remake me.
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We got out of Tijuana alive, but for our lungs. A drunk man tried to make a stumble for it at the border, walking through the turnstiles and weaving for the exit doors on the other side. “Sir! Sir!” He didn’t make it. We didn’t see the finish of his story as we were being held up ourselves by the clerk. The ID I brought with me to get into the States wasn’t apparently enough, but he let me go on my word that I would be eventually getting a passport.
Stopped at San Diego on our way back. Our impression was that it’s a friendly place, the gaslight quarter a martini blend of Seattle and San Fransisco. We were on the hunt for delicious chocolate, and we found it almost right away. A marquis sign advertising fudge caught us into parking.