Al Principio

His looks are quite mild. Dried, sand-colored strips of skin peel away from his bottom lip, and around his eyes bitter-yellow circles revolve like turning leaves.

Seated across my kitchen table, he takes his Swiss Army knife to the cork. Lips rest on a translucent rim. Glass slides on the wet table-top. We ease into an early evening.

I make him laugh, and his teeth are washed in mauve like two rows of harvest berries. Now I’m self-conscious about my own.
“Are they purple?” I ask, scrunching my nose, struggling to lift my lip high enough to expose my teeth. A $9 bottle of Shiraz Yellowtail. I bought it earlier believing it was blush.
“Not at all.”
Then, clinking his own teeth together, “How ‘bout mine?” he asks nearly inaudibly. And my laughter says it all.

This is how it usually goes. We sit and chat about our day: the threat of snow, the presidential race, the football game he saw last week.
“Kristen—" he leaves it hanging in the sky for a moment, "when we graduate,
let’s visit Spain.”