by Marc Moss

You taught me about arugula and Bombay Sapphire gin. It was my first summer after my divorce, and you spun your car around to say “Hi” to me again after I checked your employee pass. You invited me up to visit you, twenty miles north, in Grant Village, and we shared a torrid summer together. The Gringo 5 inches taller than you and 40 lbs heavier.

You let the clerk at the grocery store and make fun of me when I wore your college t-shirt when she said, “You? How did you get into Pomona?”

I talked you into staying an extra month, and we lit out across the West, you saying goodbye to all of the bison as we drove out of the park, you encouraged them to, “Eat! Eat!”

And you talked about me behind my back to your brother in Spanish, right in front of me, because you knew I only spoke English. And you taught me how to fold a fitted sheet.