Construction Vest

Updated: Jan 15

Shiny neon vest, concrete smelling skin, rough hands, sweet smile. That is how I remember you. We met one hot summer evening at a rodeo. The dirt bounced off the floor as boots slid left to right. With one hand on your hip as you extended the other my way. “Bailamos?” you asked me to dance. To the beat of the cumbia you held me close to you, I drowned in the musk of your freshly pressed shirt, hints of fabric softener tickled my nose.

“I am from Durango, we don’t dance like that!” You said. “You Chihuahua girls think you can lead.” Me being from Chihuahua had nothing to do with wanting to lead, I thought. You shifted my body in a steady motion. I looked up and found the dark of your eyes enchanting. The tan of your skin adoring.

I know I broke your heart the way I so abruptly decided to end our relationship. After a year, I could foresee a future where I wouldn’t be living out my dreams, even if I wasn’t quite sure what they were.

I wanted to be a singer, a dancer, a teacher, a writer, a poet, a soldier, a cook. Housewife was not on the list. You said if I married you I would never have to work a day ever again. That I could stay home, cook, clean, tend to the five children we would have. I was scared of the idea. I just wanted to dance with you.

You crossed my mind a few times. I saw you years later at a dance. One I attended alone. I meant to tell you, years later when you messaged me, asking if I was happy. I was. I am.

Through the bouncing couples I noticed you, tall, happy, handsome in the black stetson. A veil of dust through the light revealed your pregnant dancing partner. I smiled, you got what you wanted.

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