Juniper always requires
an after-dinner cocktail
with her cigarette. It’s become
a ritual— me handing her
a sweating glass and simultaneously
lighting her Camel Turkish Gold.
Tonight, her lips part to form words
as big as continents but all I see
is the smoke dripping
from her lipstick. Then,
her imprint on the glass.
 
The vermilion shade reminds me
of the time I walked in on her
with a man named Jason
on our couch. Her cognac hair tangled
by the necklace her grandmother left
her and Jason’s upper body
covered in unnatural red.
 
But tonight her eyes are gunpowder
and her legs only spell my name. She croons
a sappy song about how I’m the only violet
she’s known, chest pressing into mine.
Her grandmother’s necklace dangling
down the side of my breast.
 
Suddenly, the vivid colors drain.
We’re two shades of grey
on a couch in Seymour.
Our apartment becomes
too small and her face
develops wrinkles. And it stops
mattering to me if his name
is Jason or Thomas or Alex.