October

“In my heart, October is yours.”
The next thing Jessica says to me is, “But don’t tell anyone that.”
I respond to this with an illustrated letter that is three pages long and an assortment of small gifts that she says she received but on which she never made any further comment.
I know why this is, just as I know why I have to keep my October a secret and why I wasn’t allowed to go see her in San Francisco last August. (Secretly, I had hoped to claim that month as my own as well.) The Why is called Savannah, and the Why’s face makes expressions that are far more painfully beautiful than my awkward lips and small eyes could ever manage. All the other months belong to her, especially that August now. I think she knew I was going to try and take it. Sometimes, I look at pictures of them together, but I really shouldn’t, because I always end up sitting and staring at my hands folded in my lap, feeling small and forgetting what to do with my body.

It’s getting better, though.

In my heart, October was hers, until this one. I’ve given her October away, though I haven’t yet told her that. I don’t feel guilty about it though, because the new owner looks just like her. It’s kind of unsettling at times, actually.
On October 3rd, this new owner and I drank merlot born from the sun and the winds under Christmas lights in the warm fall air. She inspected the label with a wrinkled nose, set it down and proclaimed, “The best wine always come from South America, I swear.”
I slid my tongue over my teeth and tasted the red stain there, and I thought of how the flavor of the wine lingered on her lips when I kissed her. Like I was drinking it from her. I looked at her, so familiar, that same dark hair and those same playful eyes. But different. She spoke with an accent and instead of lowering her gaze to the floor when she spoke to me, she’d bite her lip and smile.
“I think you’re right,” I said. “So far, South American wine is the best.”