In the Arizona rental farmhouse, they are both almost newlyweds–glowing together in the kitchen, at the table with her sisters–his sisters-in-law. As his oldest friend, I drink from the slender jade bottle of whiskey–merrily. Then he tells me I’m his best man so I drink again to that. I am so merry then, and desperate to tell her: I would be a bridesmaid for her, my oldest friend who is a woman. I say it dumbly, in front of all of the sisters. I fall asleep in the couch.
I am awake, miserably. And hungover at the Grand Canyon’s crest, with him and her taking pictures of themselves, them posing while I take–pictures of them against a clear blue sky that goes on forever behind them. It looks so great like movies. I feel like I could reach out and touch the flat gauche of azure and red and orange parallax.
Later, he fingers dirt for her and explains erosion. I am selfishly aware of the world changing, like Stevie Nicks and her landslide. But I do not throw up.FDM.
El Golpe Avisa 