Hanging with Leslie Jane

For LJC 1957–1979
There we were sitting on the hood of my parents’ green Rambler. She was just shy of twenty-two, 6 foot in her stocking feet, her pool cue balanced against the fender.
Already she was snarking, fox-brown eyes twinkling. French fries! Do you still dip those in mustard!? Wasn’t she one to talk — dipping hers in mayonnaise,
washing them down with whiskey.
She lit up a lucky, flicked the match & tossed the pack in my direction. No way, Les — gave them up years ago. Fucking wuss! she smirked, my white strands of hair in contrast to her richly hued browns.
I lay back on the hood and watched her blow smoke rings, her offering to the years between us. The young and the dead — so able to take risks — run imperfect circles around us.
I roll over in bed onto my left side, my right hip stiff from yesterday’s driving. Even at sixty, I wakefully remember my parents’ rambler was a light blue and that Leslie knew life I could not yet fathom.
