By Rachel Lastra
On a stone bench. It was spring, I think. Cold but not too cold. This was back when I smoked, obviously. Marlboro 100s. You remember? The long ones. You joked that it was like having a meal. Like I’d bought you dinner. You were telling me a story about a high school friend of yours. You said she was too good at leaving people behind. Your hair was down. The smoke bloomed from your lips. A ghostly flower. And I wondered what you meant by that. But I watched you take another drag. Your hair. Your lips. Those eyes. And forgot to ask. What did you mean? I wonder it still, but I can’t ask you now. Because I lost your number, and I can’t remember your last name.
Rachel Lastra drinks peppermint tea. She composes flash in the notes app on her phone, and longer pieces in a notebook or on the computer. She plays “cat family” and “dance party” and “airport” with her daughter. She reads lots of books and has cold toes.
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