Reunion
Woodcut Derivative of The Kiss (1897) by Edvard Munch
By Adora Svitak
There’s this poster I saw once: four people, all in 1950s garb, in the style of advertisements from that time. A pretty man, sort of a dandy, with soft hands and elegant clothes, looks toward a lovely woman in a frock. By his head, a thought bubble reads, “What a beauty!” She watches a broad-shouldered woman, tall and overalls-clad, and thinks the same, while that woman gazes longingly at the manliest man in the foursome—all denim and muscle—and he looks at the dandy.
I thought of that poster because of a small trespass I committed in your room this morning. We woke up to street noise and noon sunshine stabbing holes in your grey curtains. You rolled off the futon in one neat, precise movement and turned to smile at me before going to wash up. A good, generous, open-mouthed smile. I had the fleeting thought that as some people live on books or good spirits, I could live on the happy crinkles of your eyes.
After you shut the bathroom door I tiptoed to your desk. There were some letters strewn there, uncharacteristic for a man so indisposed to collecting the sentimental detritus of life—a criminally light packer. Under some cards bearing greetings, goodwill, welcomes home, all those Auld Lang Syne-type expressions of desire to not let old acquaintance be forgot, was the corner of a picture. “Réunion, October” scribbled in marker on the glossy white. I slid it out. It was a single Polaroid photo. You and another man.
I recognized him as a foreign friend you spoke of often, but whose name you usually uttered quickly or not at all: “My friend—” leaving all of us to divine his identity from the context. “My friend—” Had I heard that hare’s jump in your throat, your tongue turned into a record player’s needle skittering across the vinyl? Truly I hadn’t thought much of it before, but here the two of you stood at the feet of an island waterfall, dangling ferns playing picture frame to the easiness of his lips on your cheek. There were crinkles by your eyes.
What a beauty!
Adora Svitak is a San Francisco Bay Area-based writer. Her stories, poetry, and nonfiction have appeared in publications including Apogee Journal, 8Poems, BUST, the Huffington Post, and numerous others. Her book Speak Up! Speeches by young people to empower and inspire was published by Quarto in February 2020.
